Dead Rising Or Alive
by Quillon42
Summary: Characters from Dead Rising just about all of them, in one battle or another fight it out with just about all the characters of Dead Or Alive in four-on-one or five-on-one sometimes six-on-one fights...4/5/6 DR characters versus 1 DOA character.
1. Battles 1 through 4

DEAD RISING OR ALIVE

DEAD RISING OR ALIVE

ENCOUNTER ONE: ROSS, TONYA, LINDSAY, AND MADONNA VERSUS

RYU HAYABUSA

PARK VIEW MAINTENANCE TUNNELS, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 5:00AM

The foursome of shopping mall survivors, (or really three-and-a-half-some, sort of…with three humans and a dog) rested atop the operational Michelle Club truck in the dank subterranean corridors and waited.

Among them, a young, strong, yet somewhat out-of-action individual looked at the love of his life and sighed. _Ton, what have we gotten ourselves into?_ he said to himself, looking down at the wound in his side. _Ah, well, as long as she gets out alive…_

Ross Folk'd taken a bullet to the abdomen for his woman, Tonya Waters, and would take a gang of gatlings more for her…so long as she would live through all of this. That was all he'd wanted.

He couldn't say as much for the other members of his party, however. A natty, prattling old woman and her organic mange of a pet, making eyes at one another as if they were interspecies spouses. Watching them coo-coo at each other obsessively, mistress to mutt and back, was enough to make him want to cast them both into the zombified mess of masses beneath them.

And he might've actually done so…really…had he not been in his present condition.

But then, of course, there was Tonya. She might not have approved of such allegedly amoral actions. On second thought, though, judging from the creases and the frustrated look on her face that Ross noticed just now, she probably wouldn't have minded his giving Lindsay Harris and her beloved poodle up to the undead public around them either.

_Well, we'd probably be…"disqualified" from this "competition" for pulling a stunt like that anyway,_ Ross figured. _And who knows, with that cowled lady who's even crazier than this countess of curs just inches away…_

Said lady had appeared out of thin air, seemingly, on the third floor helipad of the Willamette Park View Mall just an hour before. The sudden entrance made a noise not unlike a megaton larva bomb, and all those who could, scrambled up the stairs of the security area to see what was the matter.

They first saw the woman, her face sheathed behind the aforementioned whimsical cowl, her body even more outstanding than the best of those whom Frank had saved or helped in the previous sixty-four hours. Behind the woman stood about twenty others, all intimidating in size, stance and/or sluttiness.

The eyes of each behind the woman radiated red for some reason.

Taking slow, deliberate steps, she swaggered towards the Coloradan survivors and said only this:

"Cower before the Contumacious Cowl of…LA COLMILLA!"

Of those in the belligerent babe's thrall, the storied simian photojournalist attempted to resist…but was quickly brought down, defeated, though not destroyed. Fifty- or sixty-some others followed him in the ensuing instants.

Then, before much more time passed, each of the humans not yet unalive in Willamette found themselves involuntarily committed to a several-on-one martial arts tournament. It would be many hapless, guileless, untrained locals against one superpowered fighter or fightrix, each encounter occurring one at a time, in a different location in the mall.

If the survivors won the majority of the fights…then they could go free, and keep their precious little condemned shopping mall full of monsters.

If the Cowled One and her minions won…then who knew what would happen to the Earth as the mallgoers knew it.

Though one group consisted of an injured man and his girlfriend as well as a doddering, senile old woman and her contemptible canine companion…this was the group that was first to represent Willamette.

On the other end—the Dragon Sword ninja himself, Ruy Hayabusa.

And now Ross tried to take in as many deep breaths as he could through damaged ribs, clutching the saw blade at his side. The survivors had taken whatever weapons they could find in the maintenance storage room Otis had told them about. Tonya had shouldered a sledgehammer while Lindsay had piled on a couple of pylons—you know, those orange cones you see on the sidewalk and murder during driver's tests.

Lindsay's dog, Madonna, was content to take yet another hunk of meat into her maw. It must have been the thirtieth detached arm she'd munched upon since her dreadful "entry" into Entrance Plaza…which initially cost the lives of about a dozen humans.

But, thanks to some eleventh-hour science by none other than Russell Barnaby, all of the initial doomed survivors were back on their feet and okay to fight. How this occurred is an anecdote for another time.

As the injured man looked listlessly across to the double doors to the butcher shop on the other side of the immediate tunnel area, he noticed something flitting fleetingly across his line of vision.

A small sprite of an object, puffing and poofing along in the air of the tunnel…

_But wait,_ Ross thought. _This tunnel doesn't have a lot of wind going for it. Not with the throngs of…things down here._

He looked over and saw a single leaf settling down upon the other truck in the vicinity—the one with slashed tires.

_And there's no trees down here either…_

Suddenly, also flitting past the man's line of vision, was another such leaf.

Then another.

Then about twenty or thirty more.

Ross and his lover gripped one another, aghast, as the leaves began to coalesce into a small funnel, then culminate into a fearsome fighter.

The haughty Hayabusa said not a word, but simply leapt deftly from his perch atop the slashed truck.

Four human eyes and four bitches' peepers watched as the ninja set upon tens of zombies and devoured them all with a single stroke of his Dragon Sword. In the next few seconds, he whipped his weapon around some more, disembodying droves of the dead just to make room for fighting…and, of course, to show off.

When he was done, the ninja's eyes shot back to the top of the working truck. Slowly he sheathed his sword again; the rules of the tourney were more than fair, at least at first glance, as the survivors not only had the advantage of numbers during the battles, but exclusive access to weaponry and even vehicles as well.

What Ryu did just now was simply…cleaning up the arena, a bit.

"If I'm gonna die," said Tonya bravely, picking up herself and her sledgehammer, "I want it to be with you, Ross.

"Even if it has to be this way…"

And with that, the woman jumped off the survivors' truck, some unfounded strength within her hefting the hammer above her head and striking down at the position where Ryu was…

…just a second ago.

Tonya's weapon bit into naught more than concrete as the ninja whirled away, dashing back and then back in again with a flurry of chopping jabs. Hayabusa's quick hands delved into the woman's midsection mercilessly, now one into her stomach, now one into her liver, now one into her kidney.

As Tonya stood there, dazed, Ryu finished with a flying spin kick that drove the woman hard against the wall.

"TONYA!" her lover cried from his higher berth. On the ground, the ninja didn't even turn his head in the direction of the yell, so intent was he on finishing off his first opponent. By the wall, a semi-conscious Tonya coughed and shunted her gaze downward in defeat.

This was more than Ross could bear. With a good deal of his ever-sapping strength, the man aimed the saw blade in his hand at Ryu's head, then let fly.

With the superhuman reflexes of a…well…a ninja, Ryu ducked away at the last second…but not quite quickly enough to avoid the blade's bite deep into his right shoulder.

"URKKKKK," the master assassin grunted against the searing pain. He looked wincingly at his shredded ball and socket, stupidly wondering for a maddened second whether to pull the thing out or not.

"Lindsay…Lindsay…Lind,…LINDSAY!" urged, then hollered Ross to the woman near him, who was heretofore engaged in some staring contest with her poodle. As the dowager turned, the man who could not run like the wind said, "we have to get ourselves and Tonya out of here. We can't fight this freak around here as well as we might…elsewhere. I have an idea."

As the old woman started to appear to understand, Ross grabbed her and she grabbed her dog. Tumbling off the roof of their truck, the man cried again to the woman who was his world.

"TONYA!"

This time, the survivors' ninja opponent turned at the sound of the name. Blood spurting from his shoulder, Ryu yelled as he watched his other three enemies climb into the cab of the intact Michelle Club truck.

"That won't help you," hissed the Hayabusa. "I am the Singular Super-Ninja."

"And we are the plural punkasses who're gonna TAKE YOU DOWN!!" responded Ross, pulling the truck into top gear, then rushing straight at his lover's would-be-killer.

As the man expected, Ryu whisked himself away before he could allow himself to be run over. That wasn't Ross's goal anyway.

"Ton, get in! Get in, quick!" the survivor cried to his girlfriend as he swung the truck alongside the far wall. Unfortunately, she wasn't responding.

"Tonya!"

Ross jumped out of the cab, heedless of the martial-arts-monster lurking in the tunnel. He had to get to his woman.

"Tonya! Come ON!"

Lightly, yet lovingly, he caressed her ebony cheek, then kissed her awkwardly on a closed eye. (Hey, this was in the heat of battle here).

As if by some fairy-tale knight-in-shining-armor energy, the woman awakened.

"Rr…oh, Rr…"

"Thank God you're okay. Tonya, we have to get going…come on."

And then, with some sort of supersurvivor sort of power, Ross Folk, who was heretofore carried on another's back, hefted his lady upon his own…

…and made it to the truck.

_Where is that madman?_ Ross wondered to himself as he set the truck back into a driveable gear and darted down the tunnel. The contestants wouldn't be disqualified if they left the starting area—so long as they stayed within the vicinity of the designated area. In other words, as long as Ross didn't drive up into Leisure Park, or try to get into one of the doors formerly locked with the maintenance storage key, he would be alright.

And Ross had no intention of doing either.

But that ninny of a ninja was nowhere to be seen as the survivors pulled away from in front of the butcher shop.

He shuttled himself, his lover, and Old Lady Harris and her…lover down the tunnels, making the first left, then the first right. As he did so, he'd heard Lindsay speak (at least speaking sort of normal words) for the first time since they got down there.

He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"McDonald's…my McDonald's…"

_Oh, no, not now,_ he thought. Ross'd thought that, as long as the woman stayed with her pet, there wouldn't be any trouble from her. He'd gotten wind of her maniacal tendencies from the revived survivors from Entrance Plaza…how, when she didn't get what she wanted, she'd turn over hell and earth to get it, both of which were present in Willamette.

Ross was sure that, as long as Lindsay'd had her poodle, all would be well.

But then he forgot about the rumors regarding her fast food addiction.

As well as how hastily they pilfered the maintenance storage room, and probably left that bag of Big Macs and french fries behind.

And now Lindsay's cawing was getting all the louder.

"Have you seen my burger?" she quailed, grabbing at Ross's bloodied lapel. "Oh, I can't leave without my precious little all-beef patties! Oh, where is my McDonald's? Where is it?! Oh…"

Ross buried his head in his hands briefly as the truck settled to a stop in front of the maintenance room. Perhaps this might not have been the best place to drive to…

"Ross, honey," started Tonya, as she laid a warm hand on her lover's shoulder, "we can't give up now. We have to keep going, and keep alert. That sawbladed samurai could be back for us at any time…"

"I know, beautiful, I know…" Ross replied. "This might be the best spot in the tunnels…if he catches up to us and we can corner him in the room…"

_Or if Ryu Hayabusa cornered them_, a rebutting thought crept past Ross's mind suddenly.

Then, to confirm the man's worst fears: "MCDONALD'S!"

The injured survivor and his love didn't even have time to turn their heads as Lindsay Harris suddenly bolted from the stationary truck, her beloved bitch following closely behind. "MCDONALD'S! MY MCDONALD'S IS OUT THERE!!"

Ross Folk and Tonya Waters watched on in shock as the old lady barreled past idling zombies to get to a nasty, greasy bag filled with all kinds of fried crap. A smaller pouch for the pooch sat next to the larger sack of heart attack.

"AND YOUR HAPPY MEAL IS STILL HERE, TOO, MADONNA!"

"Barf! Barf!" yelped the hateful pet as it trotted alongside its miserable mistress. It seemed just as excited about getting clogged arteries as well.

Neither of them, of course, noticed the ninja nestled nefariously atop their truck.

The ninja which then chose to leap upon the pair as they were padding toward their putrid provisions.

"I'M SAVING YOU, BURGERS! WAIT FOR ME, SPECIAL SAUCE, LETTUCE, CHEESE…AGHH….AUGGHH!"

Lindsay toppled to the concrete floor unceremoniously as Ryu corkscrewed hands-first into her back.

"You can't…my McDonald's…" was all she could manage to stammer.

Ryu said nothing in return, but simply jumped over the woman entirely.

Just when Ross and Tonya thought their opponent would land cleanly behind Lindsay, he grabbed the woman by the shoulders in mid-flight and hurled her head over heels into the closed door to the maintenance storage room. The door creaked open as the old fartette crumpled into unconsciousness.

"BARF! BARF!" protested Lindsay's bitch, tensed and ready to leap at Ryu's throat.

"Sorry, you mongrel, but I'm not Shinobi Shadow Dancer," said Hayabusa as he performed a hand plant into a semi-jump-kick just at the moment that Madonna leapt for him.

The kicked dog hurtled through the air into the maintenance storage—into a barrel filled with inflammable liquid.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

Ryu brought his fists up at the last moment to shield himself from the blast that claimed the canine—

--and thus never saw Ross's fist coming straight for his right shoulder.

Tonya stood nearby, at the ready with another sledgehammer as Ross continued to tear into Ryu's newly gained Achilles's Heel. When she saw her lover punching at zombies from a mere standing position as he, she, and Frank West paced through Wonderland Plaza a couple of days ago, Tonya thought it brave, and at the same time pitiful; his hands weren't exactly having the same effect on the undead as, say, the journalist's microscopic chainsaws.

But now, against the ninja's alive yet ailing shoulder, said fists were finding the most Louisiana of purchases.

"That's…unf…for my girlfriend…and that's…unf…for me!" the man spat furiously as he continued to pummel Ryu mercilessly in his shoulder. The murderous Hayabusa couldn't even turn around at this point.

"And I'm not gonna do one for the old lady and her dog, but…"

"UNGH!"

Ross backed away suddenly as Tonya's sledgehammer clocked Ryu across the noggin, knocking him out. He looked over at her, and she hocked a thick one, which landed right near the ninja's face.

"Take that, Ninja GayMan," she said.

As she then scooped her lover up onto her back and climbed back into the truck, not even bothering to get Lindsay or her poodle, she held back so many tears.

_All of this just to get out of a damn shopping mall,_ she thought. _And God knows what's going to happen to the others._

Tonya looked over to her man and managed a smile, which he returned. Then they kissed heartfully.

As they turned the engine of the truck back on to back away from the storage area, they looked at the concrete floor, astonished.

Surrounding the prone forms of Lindsay and Madonna Harris were a scattered smattering of the greenest of leaves.

ENCOUNTER TWO: JEFF, WAYNE, LEROY, AND BILL VERSUS

BASS ARMSTRONG

COLBY'S MOVIELAND ANNEX, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 5:20AM

Nothing but wooden slats and the air spaces in between them could be beheld in Jeff Meyer's field of vision. The middle-aged mallrat had awakened just moments ago, discovering that he was encased in a very tight and compromising position, his head tucked down to his knees inside some kind of small space like a chicken inside of an egg. His limbs were free, and to his apparent luck he could feel his favorite golf club just alongside his left leg. But other than small strips of some kind of artificial light, his world otherwise was naught but a black void.

"Hey…hey…anyone…"

The manly Meyer's range of motion was limited, and though he was not bound, he had the most difficulty just trying to lift his head in his position.

Fortunately, a second later the darkness above him gave way to brilliant shining light, and before he knew it, Jeff was being helped out of his state of near-fetal imprisonment.

Two meaty, scraggly pairs of arms brought Jeff to his feet. An instant later, he found himself facing two men actually larger than himself, if that were possible. The first was a pudgy fellow with an oversized baseball jersey named Wayne Blackwell; the other, a grungy hillbilly-looking sort, dressed to his inbred nines in overalls and a long-flowing beard courtesy of God's providence and deliverance.

"Hello, Jeff," the latter said, extending a sweaty hand towards he who was held captive in a crate just a minute ago. Overalls appeared reasonably affable at first glance—though there was the most sinister of expressions that Jeff could detect behind the other man's eyes as well.

"H-hey," Jeff responded, taking Leroy's hand and releasing it in a summary motion. He looked around and noticed all sorts of orderly racks filled with orange octagonal containers. There were also a few cardboard boxes scattered along the floor near the exit to the place. It looked as if the source of light for the room was emanating from somewhere around the shelf to his right.

Jeff then shot another glance at Wayne, and noticed for the first time that each of the other two had the weirdest of objects in their hands. A gigantic lipstick. A huge faux bottle of perfume, made from cheap plastic. And other unmanly items as well.

He decided to ignore it for a second, however. "Wh-why was I…" Jeff looked back at the box that once held him. Then he looked to Leroy, suspicious. "You didn't…"

Overalls's face widened with a jerky smirk. "ME?! Heck no," he replied, with a nervous chortle as he followed Jeff's gaze to the crate. "What do I look like, some sort of…serial killer?"

"Well, then, who?!..."

The answer did not arrive through words, but rather through a giant yellow and black ball of a man that rolled in out of nowhere. Opposite to the three hefty men, this far heftier human slid into the corner opposite them, like a big blond tumbleweed. Eventually unfurling himself, he stood to face the mall men.

Once thought to be the threat by Jeff, Leroy sprung into immediate, instinctive action to defend the other two…especially Wayne. Dropping his lipstick for a second, he launched himself at the newcomer, brandishing a handbag like a bolo. "S-s-sorry about this, but I can't let you hurt…"

The infinitely larger enemy simply tripped Leroy and threw him to the ground, then lifted up Overalls slightly by his shoulders and got behind his upper torso. With a sick twist, the man-monster cracked some quantity of vertebrae in Leroy's spine, then picked up the poor hick's body and lifted it vertically onto his shoulder. With a hearty grunt, the newcomer executed a brainbuster on Ma McKenna's noble boy, driving the latter man to the ground head first.

The victor proudly spread his arms underhandedly and brought his left foot forward in a stomp of sorts. "Get up and try again, fool!"

"LEE-LEE!!" blubbered Wayne, unable to bear the sight of his lover's hitting the concrete of Colby's Annex so abruptly. Yes, that was correct; Leroy and Wayne were indeed each other's beloved and betrothed. It was no coincidence that the homeless-looking photo hero found each of them in a perfume boutique when they were saved. During the initial undead danger, the two flamboyant fatsos fled subconsciously to the area of the mall they visited the most together, that they cherished the most—the place that reminded each of the other.

And now Leroy lay crumpled on the ground, with literally a broke back…and possibly a broke neck as well. Wayne could withstand no more.

As with Leroy, he put down his cheesy boutique prop and foolishly just bum-rushed his opponent with a flimsy hanger in hand. Perhaps he could hope to get at the behemoth's nostrils with it before he was permanently corporeally rearranged.

"All right, tough guy…I'm gonna take care of…"

The other man just grabbed Wayne by the arm, turned him, and threw him against the opposite wall. As the chubby baseball-clad Blackwell barely came to, his face made personal acquaintance with the human mountain's chest as the latter belly-bumped the former into oblivion.

"Put the pedal to the metal!" screamed the golden giant at the prone Wayne.

"How 'bout I put my putter to you instead?"

Said giant turned…

…just in time to catch a tiny white Titleist right in the left lens of his shades.

As the monster's sunglasses shattered upon the impact, he hunched down into a squat, swirled one arm in the air a few times, and went into a major poser flex with both arms.

"I'm gonna kick your ass!" he exclaimed, doing something between a yell and a bellow. (Given this combination as well as the golden hue of his hair, to say that he "yellowed" would be rather accurate).

A few feet away, Jeff Meyer bravely faced the leviathan alone. "So you're our scheduled opponent, then, I imagine?"

"Bass Armstrong, bucko," huffed the other man as he slowly stood up. "And that shot you just made represents the last time any kind of balls'll be associated with you."

Jeff stood his ground unflinchingly. "And just who do you think you are?"

"Who am I? I'm the next champion of the Hyper Battle Grand Prix, that's who I am. I'm the proud father of none other than Tina Armstrong, the booby…I mean, the beautiful wrestler-cum-rock star-cum Academy Award winner who has the Tecmoverse in the palm of her strong yet dainty hand. I'm…"

"Wait…Tecmoverse?!"

Bass glared at Jeff's askance look. "Yeah, that's right; Tecmoverse. This ALL HERE…" he said, grandiosely waving his arms around the annex, as if to signify Jeff's entire world, "is going to come under the rule of La Colmilla, our mistress…and your world will become…Tecmogrified to suit our leader's needs."

Jeff didn't know what to make of this rhetoric, so he just ignored it. "So you have a lady in your life…your daughter…who's all wild and wonderful, is that right?"

Bass crinkled his brow a second as he came down from his tirade, and looked his still standing opponent square in the eye. "Yeah, that's right."

"Yep…" Jeff started, "….I know all about what that's like. It was the same with my Natalie, many Willamettan moons ago. Boy, I tell ya, she was the loveliest moll this side of Colorado…" Jeff trailed off as he pronounced his home state "Colorada," mesmerized in the memories that flooded to him. "All the other men swung on by and took their shot at her, but she was above all them, with her short hair, shorter skirts, and dynamic figure. God, was she ever so shapely. No man mightier than a Meyer could win that belle's heart, I swear…yeeeeeeppppp, just like your Tina, I suppose. I know it's hard to keep a woman so desirable in line, but, it comes with the territory. I still have to fight off the suitors sometimes, even in my present state of wedlock."

"NO ONE EVEN COMES CLOSE TO MY TINA!!" blurted Bass. "ENOUGH TALK!! IT'S TIME TO…UNGH!"

Bass never managed to finish as his the back of his head unexpectedly met with the faux sheen of a giant pink lipstick, swinging on through.

The blond bear of a man was knocked forward momentarily as Leroy whapped him across the cranium again and again with the object. Another second later, Wayne came to as well, and Jeff looked on in satisfaction as fake perfume container blows joined those of the lipstick prop in a proper rhythm.

"URR…" was all Bass could say as he was being summarily beaten down.

"This is for my lady, Leroy," said Wayne between perfume strikes.

"This is for my woman, Wayne," said Leroy between lipstick hits.

Upon hearing the other's statement, the two survivors looked at one another.

"Wait…I'm the one who wears the pants in this relationship," said Wayne, looking most crossly at Leroy. "You're the one wearing the panties!"

"No, I'm the one that's got the rugged thing going, with the overalls and everything! You're…"

"AAARRARRGH!"

Before Wayne or Leroy could carry on any further with the lover's quarrel, Bass regained his feet and swung his arms left and right, knocking Leroy once again for a loop.

"Lee…"

Wayne could not even finish the first name of his dream lover before Bass turned, lifted a massive foot, and kicked out like the most jacked mule ever. The poor mallgoer flew through the Annex at an unbelievable speed—the whole metric ton of him.

As Bass then expected, Jeff flew at him (as hastily as the flabby man could "fly") with golf club to the fore. The pro wrestler floored the middle-ager effortlessly with a double-legged drop kick that shook the earth at the close of its execution.

The behemoth then stood tall, proud to be the victor once again. "You better eat!" he said to all three combatants. "Eat some meat! …Well, on second thought…" He looked at the bulging bodies of those he just trounced and shook his head in disgust. "…maybe you all should eat…less meat."

"Eat…THIS!"

Upon hearing yet another voice behind him, Bass abruptly turned and responded with a flipping somersault kick that floored his unknown would-be assailant.

"ACK!" yelped the even newer man as he toppled to the floor.

But then he scrambled back to his feet as fast as he fell.

"Are you _serious?_" the new person asked as he took in Bass, rhetorically of course. To be fair, Bass honestly asked himself the same question as he absorbed the stimuli that defined his new challenge. The man before him was almost as massive; not as tall, but certainly as wide, if not wider, than himself. He also sported trendy headgear and eyewear, with a baseball cap the color of verdant spring and bifocals as vibrant as dear Tina's resplendent smile. And the crimson shirt the man wore reminded Bass of that worn by Linus Van Pelt from Peanuts—if Linus were the Himalayas instead of a human being.

No matter.

Bass would not let himself by rattled. Although he did not know from whence this new combatant had come, it made no difference. The wrestling superstar had come this far; he was going to finish what he had begun.

"I'll fold you like a pancake," he swore, pointing at his adversary. "A big, thick…humongous ass pancake."

The other man failed to scare for a second. He merely looked at his enemy and, gritting his teeth, uttered:

"Not in a million years."

Bass rushed at the new combatant, his arms extended like those of a grizzly bear who just discovered her young in the arms of a predator. The object of his attack simply sidestepped and thereby avoided the man's assault—even though he cut quite a profile even from a lateral view.

As Bass crashed messily into a shelf near the Annex exit, the other man announced: "I swear I'll put you down; I'll knock you off early—or my name's not Bill Brenton."

As said Bill finished his sentence, he took his turn to rush at his opponent, putting his head down and charging not unlike the bulkiest of bulls.

Unfortunately, just as the big red one reached the other bruiser, the latter got to his feet and grabbed the former. Hefting the entire weight of his enemy onto his shoulder (somehow), Bass sprinted forward, running around the end of a shelf and into the main area of the Annex. As soon as the superstar reached the middle of the huge red spread that covered the floor there, he slammed Bill down painfully onto his bottom. Not wasting another second, he then lifted Bill again so that his blubbery mass was contained in a collective armload, then threw him down once more in the most effective of power bombs.

A bit winded, Bass then took a break to stride around the Annex, point around like the poor man's Hulk Hogan that he was, and flex his ass off. Upon regaining some of his strength, he returned to Bill's side to do more damage.

Unbeknownst to Bass, while he was galavanting around, Bill reached inside one of the cardboard boxes that he managed to smuggle into the arena. (Bill had further smuggled himself into the arena via one of the cardboard boxes as well, partially in homage to his favorite hero, a serpentine operative of the solid kind. Although as solid as that hero was, Bill Brenton was the infinitely solider soldier…physically, at least). As Bass stooped to again conquer Bill, the latter whipped a pick axe out of nowhere and drove it down towards his enemy's face.

To Bill's shock, however, Bass dodged the blow, though the tip of the axe did manage to score the enemy's headwear from his scalp. Soon Bass was sans bandana, just as he was bereft of his sunglasses moments before.

And knocking the accessories off of a fighter was an unforgivable offense, as the other mall survivors had learned the hard way.

Without another moment's hesitation, Bass lifted Bill up and, quite roughly, administered another power bomb, then another move that started as a power bomb but then converted into a back breaker as the fighter brought Brenton's spine down upon the top of his head. "That'll teach you to mess with my hair," Bass muttered.

The wrestler then approached Bill's laid-out form and, grabbing a beefy leg, dragged the doomed employee of In the Closet around the floor of the Annex for a few instants, then with one arm hurled the ruby-hued rotundity across the room.

As Bill passed out of consciousness and into defeat, Bass, proudly stood in the center of the Annex, waving both arms and casting both thumbs down. "Crush all comers with our fists! That's how a real man fights!"

MALLGOERS: 1

EVILDOAERS: 1

ENCOUNTER THREE: HEATHER, PAMELA, SOPHIE, AND SID VERSUS HITOMI

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL SECURITY AREA, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 5:40AM

"Well, I don't want to be the one to fight her!"

"But you're the one who took that…kenpo class or whatever it was last summer, Pams…you could probably take her."

"It was tae-bo. And Heather, you're the one who's been kicking and screaming and shoving since we got here. You fight her."

Outside the front left survivor room, an unreasonably sexually proportioned woman decked out in denims leaned against an opposite wall, a trace of red in each iris that matched the hue of the gloves stretched across her combative yet callus-less fists.

She watched what was going on inside with a semi-hypnotic, semi-dead gaze. Two girls who must have been twins speaking more with their hands than with their mouths; a bald man with glasses trying to interpose himself between the two, his own hands working even more furiously, though his mouth was shut; and a dainty red-haired woman curled in a ball in the corner, trying to block out all the aforementioned noise.

Said bald man Sid Carmack was mute, but he voiced his own concerns by signing to the girls that they should all work together and try to quadruple-team the woman outside. Of course, in his sort-of-panicked state, he didn't have the presence of mind to realize that perhaps neither twin could understand his hand motions. And Sophie, catatonic with fear and dread, was in no shape to translate.

Sid gestured to Heather and Pamela that there were all kinds of routines they could perpetrate against their waiting opponent. Perhaps, for example, he could get on the ground, round himself into a ball kind of like Sophie was doing, except even more fetal, and then his lover could run up and use his back as a springboard to execute some sort of dynamic jump kick or jump knee. Sid got on the ground face down and tucked himself accordingly to show what he meant, pointing at Sophie for a second and then walking the forefingers of one hand across his back to convey the possible attack by his girlfriend.

"What the &#'s he doing?" Heather asked, not knowing what to make of a creepy-looking guy cuddling in the corner by himself, with one hand dancing across his back and the other hand God knows where.

"I think he wants us to see his girlfriend demonstrating something…private with him or something," said Pamela. "This isn't the time or the place…and I don't really like to watch, anyway."

Sid shook his head and clucked his tongue as he looked back over his shoulder at the girls. He quickly got up and approached them, again indicating Sophie and bending towards the Tompkins, slapping his back with his hands, then pointed to the woman outside and drew his elbows straight back and his knee up to demonstrate his plan once more.

"Oh God…he wants to do a ménage with his girl and our opponent," interpreted Pamela. "This isn't that kind of event, Mr. Carmack."

"Are you kidding me?! No way!" Not unlike the jade giantess who once inhabited the survivor chamber next door, Heather had decided that she'd had about enough of this.

Sid slapped both hands to his face in exasperation. Maybe he could explain the second part of his routine to them at least. Perhaps, he began to sign again, if their target ducked out of the way of Sophie's jump kick or jump knee, then Heather and Pamela could join hands and clothesline her right after she dodged. He took each girl's hand to try and link them to demonstrate the clothesline.

"We're not gonna be part of your…pervert orgy," yelped Heather. "Get the frig away from us!" She then walked up to him and delivered a couple of her patented girly shin kicks, which did less than nothing to the man.

The shock of seeing this through crossed arms, however, was too much for Sophie. The young woman brought herself to her feet at last and walked toward the other three.

"He's trying to figure us a way to fight that freak out there! Can't you see that?!" she started, motioning towards the jeans-wearing warrior lurking beyond the grimy glass pane. "He's coming up with more than either of you have, so far…"

"Just go sit down again, you prematurely aged fart," said Heather. She punctuated her words with a hearty shove that sent poor Sophie onto her derriere once more. "We don't need your input."

A survivor of stronger fabric might have picked himself or herself up right at that moment and used Heather Tompkins as a warm-up to fight the real opponent outside. But Sophie was not constructed of such strength, and as such she merely stood again and cried softly to herself. Sid gave up on the other girls and approached his love to comfort her…

Only to find himself sprawling toward the floor as well, another victim of Heather's vicious shoves.

"You two just stay out of our way! We'll figure it out from here." The Juicy-hatted Tompkins turned back to her sister. "Friggin' Dateline predator right there…and his date, with that red toupee of hers."

Heather turned back toward her sister just in time to feel the latter's fingers across her cheek.

"How dare you, Heather?!" Pamela said, unable to tolerate her twin's insolence any longer. "We're all supposed to be a team—and you go around attacking everyone who's on your side. We can't win anything that way."

Being a being of no human fabric whatsoever, Heather then used Pamela—her own flesh and blood, and literally a reflection of herself—as a warm-up to fight the real opponent outside.

"I promise I'll share the credit with all of you when I kick this bitch's ass up and down the security area," Heather said to the other three, glancing behind her at her now-bloodied sister. Pamela crawled towards Sophie and Sid as the survivor door slammed shut.

"Come on…Hi-tomi or whatever your name is," the more base of the Tompkinseseses said as she swaggered forward, pronouncing the other woman's name "High Tommy."

"It's Hitomi," said Hitomi, "and I think you're about to regret alienating your other three teammates. It's a shame, too: that bald guy had a nice plan, with the jump knee and everything."

"Look, whatever-the-hell-your dumb, ugly name is…I don't need any of those fairies. I can kick your ass on my own."

"I sure hope so, 'Juicy,' because I'm here to win!"

"Just shut up, okay?!" Heather then approached her official enemy and again executed her best combo: three girly shin kicks in rapid succession. Hitomi didn't even flinch; she kind of just stood there and looked down at her left pant leg to see if it were at all dirtied. It wasn't.

She then brought both hands over her head and drew them in front of Heather in a ready fighting stance, her left out a foot in front of her right. Heather looked at the configuration of Hitomi's hands and imagined the other woman holding a shotgun in them.

Which was pretty appropriate, because the young girl was about to be blasted off her feet.

As an a propos response to Heather's assault, Hitomi started with some legwork of her own. A quick kick to the girl's chest, another to her stomach, then a spin kick that set Heather aloft on an express flight path from the door to the front right survivor room to the back edge of the rear left survivor area window. Heather's spiteful face rebounded off the glass before her body dribbled to the ground.

She didn't have time to get up or even say anything smarmy as Hitomi then set upon her again, pulling a double sweep kick to the head that kept the Tompkins to the ground for several more moments.

"You see, little girl? One good hit is all it takes." Hitomi stood triumphantly over Heather's prone form. Or maybe in your case, two hits. Or five."

"I can…I can beat you…still…" Heather said rather pathetically as, three minutes later, she managed to pick herself up again.

Her nose interfaced with the soles of both of Hitomi's sneakers as the latter double-jump-kicked the former in the face. "Juicy" was darn right to describe Heather at the moment, as the juices of blood and saliva exploded from her mouth, and other juices involuntarily discharged from her digestive system.

"I've been well trained in karate, you piddling jerk," Hitomi barked, looking down at Heather's dampened short shorts. "You apparently haven't been trained even in potty."

She then picked up her opponent and did a couple of crescent kicks for good measure.

"Here, so that the bald guy's ideas don't totally go to waste, let me show you what he was talking about!"

She then kneed Heather, kicked at her midsection, then axe kicked her down again.

At this point the young teenager, now closer to being "Woozy" Tompkins, started crawling on the floor like the biggest McHandy's coward there ever was. Hitomi stalked after the girl, intending to finish the fight.

Heather huddled against a grouping of cardboard boxes placed under the stairway to the helipad. What could she do? She was about to meet the Man upstairs…or, for her eighteen years of cruelty on this Earth, the Man downstairs probably.

Desperately she clutched at a couple of the boxes to find something, a weapon of opportunity of some sort. She ducked her bleeding head into one container, and was dismayed to find only a cabbage.

Kind of out of her mind from the beating she received anyway, she took the vegetable out of the box and lifted it up towards the hovering Hitomi. _As if it would do anything,_ she said to herself.

It did.

"Ah? My favorite!" cried the fighter as she grabbed the cabbage from the ass-kicked survivor. She brought the food fondly to her chest. "So perfect and round!"

Heather looked up in disbelief through a bloody haze. She didn't even want to ask about it; she just wanted to get away. As Hitomi then began to chew on the cabbage, Heather slithered slowly up the stairs toward the helipad. That was the closest exit, and leaving the battle area would ensure her disqualification and an end to the torture by her opponent.

Just as she was about to reach the door out: "Heather! Wait!"

She painfully craned her near-broken neck around to view the pair of lovers, Sophie and Sid, crouched in a corner around the railing upstairs.

"What…what're you…"

"Come on…we're gonna help you pay that jerk back!" said Sophie, sounding genuinely interested in helping the reprobate Tompkins. "We have some weapons and stuff we found up here…when Hitomi comes into view down there, we'll let fly with what we've got! It should work as long as we do this together!"

"I…" It did sound crazy—though Heather also did want payback. "I…okay."

"Come on, then. We'll wait here for just long enough that Hitomi gets into our sights, okay? Then we'll let her have it."

Convinced, Heather left her momentary place at the helipad doorknob to stagger towards Sophie and Sid. Below, Hitomi was just finishing her anally healthy snack, and was looking around to give Heather the benefit of another beatdown. She was just at the foot of the stairs.

"Guys, I can't thank you enough…" blathered Heather as she neared closer towards the pair, passing the opening to the security area below as she did so. "If there's anything I can do to make this right…"

"NO WAY!"

If there was one thing Sophie was good at, it was voicework, anything to do with voice and language. As if to make up for her lover's lack of speech, over the years she became an accomplished vocalist, ventriloquist, and impersonator. Give Sophie ten minutes of listening to a certain inflection, and she could mimic it exactly.

So you could imagine how adept she was at aping Heather's bleating after several hours of listening to the twin go on and on.

Hitomi's radar gaze shot upward upon hearing Sophie's sudden cry, confident that it was Heather yelling instead. As she bounded up the stairs, ready to dispense some more of her own brand of justice to the Juicy one, Heather glared at the grinning redhead near her, then went back as quickly as she could and crouched near the helipad door.

"Alright, you…" started Hitomi as she reached the top.

"URFFF!"

Heather suddenly popped up and did her best to push her opponent down the stairs. Unfortunately, her target easily guarded against such an obvious assault, brought her hands around the back of Heather's hated head, and drove her knee up into the girl's face. Before Heather could fall down, the Hitster then yanked her off her feet so that she was the one closer to the stairs and checked her hard.

Heather's side plopped against a step, then her rear struck a stair four steps down, then her head connected with another one six steps down. Hitomi looked over at Sid, did the same "drawing elbows back and knee upward" pantomime he did several minutes before, and winked before joining her enemy downstairs.

Sid had to admit that that had more of an arousing effect upon him than everything Sophie had ever done to him, put together.

Upon hitting the ground, the brunette bruiser of Tecmoland picked up the brunette bruised of Willamette, and, with one hand, threw Heather over her head so that she went flying past her now-unconscious sister and into the nearly closed door of the monitor room. Seconds later, Hitomi stepped through the doorway, now made wide open by Heather's airborne form an instant ago, and grabbed the Tompkins once more. The Hitwoman then chucked Heather to the ground yet again, then punched her prone form in the face. It was a good thing that the teen didn't go by "Toothy" Tompkins.

"AAAGH! Hur-ahur-hur-hur-hur…" Heather blubbered as she bubbled blood on the ground, sounding less like herself and more like someone like Sophie, who would make a noise on occasion that could be interpreted as laughing or crying. By now she was on the ground and oozing more liquids than a hulking mutation destroyed with heavy artillery by a S.T.A.R.S. member.

This still wasn't enough for Hitomi. With all the more vigor she brought Heather to her trembling feet once more and escorted her into the vent room, much more roughly than an indigent journalist ever could. With a bit more than a little force she slammed Heather's head into the vent opening, brought the vent lid down on the back of her head, then tossed her against the door that Otis treated with his torch. Before Heather could begin to try to make an effort to turn around, Hits punched her in the back of the head, then kicked her in the back of the head so hard that the door's welding buckled and collapsed. Heather found the exit she so fervently desired as she tumbled out into the security hallway, officially defeated by ring out.

"Thanks for the fight," the victor (or victress, as it were) said as she began to stride back towards the other three combatants, to see if they wanted any, even though the match was done.

She stopped and turned, however, as she caught something in the corner of her eye:

Heather was again propping herself up, one more time.

She shambled ever so slowly towards Hitomi, looking and ambling more dead than the most deceased zombie ever. She hobbled agonizingly over to her opponent and lifted an arm in the air, then brought it down in a chopping motion in front of her to emphasize her frustration.

"OHRRR, YRRROOUU!" she mumble-screamed through a demolished mouth.

Interpreting Heather's hand motion as a karate chop, she stepped back, then did a chop of her own against Heather's fractured chest. She then spun around and punched, then lunge punched, knocking the girl against the window of the monitor room. Sid, Sophie, and a now-awake Pamela congregated in said monitor room just in time to see Hitomi bring Juicy to her feet and deliver a devastating uppercut that drove the Tompkins twin through the window. Even Pamela smiled a bit as her sister settled at her feet.

One rule of the tournament held that a combatant from either side could submit the match just by saying so. This Pamela, Sophie, and Sid did summarily, oblivious to the fact that Hitomi had just won moments ago by ring out. As the DOAer jumped up and down in a victory pose, doing her invented "power-up," the three conscious survivors of Park View applauded.

MALLGOERS: 1

EVILDOAERS: 2

ENCOUNTER FOUR: LEON KENNEDY, CHRIS HINES, RICH ATKINS,

MINDY BAKER, AND MICHELLE FELTZ VERSUS LEON

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL NORTH PLAZA, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 6:00AM

_Since I've been here,_ Leon Kennedy thought to himself as he loaded his weapons in anticipation for the coming battle, _I haven't seen or heard from any of those hounds...or Our Song._

The special agent leaned back against a scaffold support, just a couple of feet away from CD Crazy. He had on his person an okay pistol, a mega shotgun sort of thing, and his trusty combat knife. Just a smattering of the necessary tools of the trade, but it was enough.

For him, at least.

Around him, four others—Willamettans all--hefted their makeshift weaponry at the ready. One guy looked kind of putzy, standing there with his button-down hanging out and holding nothing more than a mere two by four. Atkins, he said he name was…Rich or something. Reminded Leon of one of the ill-fated Bravos back in the Arklay Mountains. He wasn't there, but had heard that this one guy—Aiken, he believed his name was—was good at communications or something or other. _Shame,_ he reflected. _Could have used an expert at that here, what with the phone lines down and all. _

_Ah well._

But speaking of S.T.A.R.S., there was this other guy near him as well…with the same chiseled face and bit of spiky hair that Claire's brother sported, in her picture of him, anyway. Said his name was Chris, too—Chris Hines. Who knows, maybe they were even related. Maybe Atkins and Aiken as well. Probably not.

Chris was sporting even more impressive wood than Rich at the moment, as he held in his paws a considerable length of plywood. Good for swiping at whatever living or maybe unliving thing came their way. Fortunately, Leon did the others the service of clearing out most of the animated deceased with his neat shotgun—_the Striker, that's what it's called,_ it came to him finally. He had utilized so many firearms while in Europe that he couldn't keep all the fancy pants names for them straight.

And as he looked on at the foursome with him, he wished he'd brought a bit more firepower, for all of them…but as it was, he'd only had enough for himself.

It didn't look like any of these schmoes knew how to use a single bit of his hardware anyway.

Leon looked at his watch, wondering where the heck Ada'd gotten off to. She was supposed to be by his side right now…and was supposed to bring Their Song…she even said she'd make it so it piped through the PA system as they fought their opponent.

Leon was here on business, though he arrived with his true love and now his spouse, Ada Wong. After a couple of tumultuous tussles with the undead in the United States and the seemingly-so overseas, the two settled their differences. Then they decided to settle down together. Ada was now even with his child, though from the wedding reception to her recent conception she was still somewhat distant and cold.

They'd had good times, don't get them wrong; how they'd laughed when they'd reached a cantina on the Balearic Islands that played nothing but Journey in the background. They'd heard the same ballads tons of times over, "Open Arms" and things like that…but most notably "Separate Ways." Leon and Ada commemorated the moment by making that Their Song.

Indeed, each of them had gone their separate ways, for far too long. But now that coupling of words, he'd determined, would be only a lyrical fragment, not a reality.

The pair had crashed the tournament only about an hour after it began, once Ingrid had sent an emergency wire to them that someone named "La Colmilla" was threatening a small community in the Rockies. Perhaps, she suggested, this might have something to do with _Los Colmillos_, the hounds that were the pets of the insidious _Ganados_ cult on the other side of the planet. And if the dogs were there, there was no telling what other components of that crazed cadre there might be in Colorado as well.

But it was no sweat for the agent. He took on a whole village of them—on their turf. Surely he could defend his homeland, where they would be out of their element. When it came to fighting _Ganados_, Leon Kennedy was surely no _perdedor_.

Ahh, Ingrid, though. How she got her hands on information so quickly—and especially when communication lines were supposedly down—was beyond him.

And how she maintained such a perfect figure had escaped his comprehension even further.

Leon looked over at the Haitian woman nearby—Michelle Feltz, her name was, she said—wearing the loud purples and pinks and wielding a simple steel bucket. She sort of reminded him of Ingrid for some reason. Made him recall how, before crossing paths with Ada in Europe, he did "not have sexual relations with" that sultry President's liaison. _Hmm…_he thought, long and hard, as he looked absently at the outline of Michelle, imagining his sexy contact instead. _She was sweet…sweet as honey…sort of like her last name._ Maybe while Ada was a bit more…incapacitated with their little bundle of joy, he could tap into some of Ingrid's Honey Again.

And then, last but most certainly not least, stood a pleasant, delectable blonde right in front of the music place. Melinda Baker…Mindy, she called herself. Commensurate with her surname, she was laden only with a long baguette. Leon's mind slipped into free association as his thoughts ran rampant. _A beautiful blonde…just like Ashley…Ashley Graham, the President's pride and joy…Baker Bake a Graham cracker all sweetened with Honey…Ingrid…Honey…Again…_

CRACK CRACK

Leon's head snapped up from his dreamy reverie as he heard his team's opponent crack his knuckles. He stood at the ready—at least a bit more so—as his enemy emerged. A rugged-looking nomad, it seemed, decked out in desert military-esque togs and a turban. _What a crude-looking crumb he is,_ Leon thought to himself. _Certainly nothing like my clean-cut special agent image. Probably just some backwoods hick, the roughneck bum…probably has some sloppy fighting style, and an idiotic name like Buford…or Dale…or…_

"Leon," the other man said, uttering nothing more than that singular syllable at first. The special agent snapped onto his feet.

"How…how did you know my…"

"No, I'm telling you all _my_ name," the opponent finished, "just so you'll all know the identity of the professional who put you down into the ground."

This made the Kennedy Leon start. "And just who do you think you are?"

"I?" said the opposite Leon. "I am nothing more than a wanderer of the world…a sentinel of the sand dunes…a saddler of steeds who course along caravansaries."

"And I eat Saddlers for breakfast," replied the first Leon.

Unhesitatingly, he whipped out his Blacktail pistol and aimed the laser sight right at the center of his adversary's turban. Before he could follow through, however, the second Leon ducked down and delivered two quick sweep kicks, flooring the first Leon and launching the gun from his hand. Just as Kennedy reached his feet once more, his face became acquainted with the advancing knees of the supposed "backwoods" brawler.

"I'm sick and tired of your face..." said said brawler Leon, "already…and it's only been about a minute."

He went forward to attack Kennedy once more as the latter's mind was spinning from the assault. Oh, how he wished he could be in Ada's arms right now—who was he kidding, with that Graham crackers and Honey thing. Ada, who argued with him over what their child's name should be. He wanted a little girl, and she a boy; he was going to name her after them both, calling her, simply enough, "Leonada," or "Adaleon." Ada, on the other hand, prayed it would be a boy, thinking both of her husband's suggested handles to be pretty stupid: the first sounded too much like "Lemonade," she told him, and the second sounded like a concubine of Kratos in an intercourse minigame.

Whatever the hell that meant.

But now was not the time to think of Ada, or Ashley, or Ingrid, or any of his other libidinal longings. He just had to get his mind off of carnal pleasures, if he were to survive this conflict.

Fortunately, before the non-Ada-wed Leon could complete his assault upon the other, he was literally swept off his feet by Chris Hines's plywood panel. As the opponent toppled onto his turban, Rich abruptly dodged Chris's wild swing.

"Watch your stroke with your wood," he spat at the other survivor.

"I know, I know…sorry. My grip on this is a bit sticky and slippery…I'm rubbing my hands all over it, and it's hard."

Such discourse was not helping Leon Kennedy focus.

"Let me whip out my wood for a second, alright?"

"Okay, Rich…do this whore proud."

And do Rich did, as his two-by-four swung and struck the prone wandering Leon across the head a couple of times. Had he been able to continue, he might have succeeded in defeating his opponent in a few more seconds. As it was, however, his weapon was ready to give in only another couple of strikes.

And speaking of strikes, Rich didn't even have a second to break his stick over the enemy Leon's head, as alleged "friend" Leon took out his striker and aimed at their opponent. The sight of the firearm caused Rich to desist and leap away. To Kennedy's dismay, leaping away was also what the other Leon did, with lightning reflexes.

And then, before the agent could fire off another salvo, his nemesis followed up his reflexes with a suplex that whisked the former Raccoon cop off his feet and the Striker away from his hands.

"My blood lust is wasted on you," muttered the desert drone as he waited for Kennedy to regain his feet, only to send him floored again with a downward punch, then an uppercut. Kennedy had sufficient seconds to reach his combat knife and palm it, only to be flattened once more by the advancing rising kicks of the Leon who was, between them, the real fighter.

The real contender.

The real man?

That was what Ada seemed to convey, when she announced proudly that their child would be a boy, and that she would, to his abject chagrin, name him after her first love…John. It was a blow to him, something fierce…but what bothered him more than the fact that the collective product of their loins (it was _his_ loins involved in this…wasn't it?) would be named after another man of Ada's, was the idea that the treasure of the GOP-phile Leon's life would be named John Kennedy.

Said Leon struggled to keep his wits and his sexual lust in check, just as the Leon facing him was seething with his own blood lust. _This man is really good,_ he thought. _Disciplined and on task, just like a warrior should be. Probably not preoccupied with a skirt…or skirts, as it were…like I am._

But it was the truth, unbeknownst to that Leon, that this desert-faring Leon shared more than just a first name with him. He also harbored longings for the fairer gender within him…and one woman, on whom he was fixated in particular, swept through his mind as he fought.

_Rolande…_

The woman of his dreams, and of his reality, so many ages ago, it seemed. The one who kept him going through all of the doom and the dunes in his life…the oases and the ordeals he faced. He had a few charms for luck on his person when he fought, but the one he cherished the most was simply a small cloth with her name embroidered upon it, her very own handiwork, something so pleasant to remember her by.

This cloth spilled out of his togs while he was axe kicking Kennedy into the wall once more, and its fabric caught the corner of his eye as he was ready to put the finishing touches on his target.

"Ahh…Rolande…Are you watching, Rolande?" he asked gently as he ceased his attack momentarily to gaze upon the dropped cloth.

Nearby, Rich, Mindy, and Chris, too terrified to fight the hulking menace upon seeing him pummel the special agent, looked down upon the cloth as well…seeing the tangible link between the living Leon and his lost love…the stitching that bore her name…

…and the apparent collective illiteracy of the two separated amours, as the cloth plainly spelled out "RONALDE."

"Ronalde?" Mindy said incredulously, cupping her hand to her mouth as she suppressed her formerly aghast gawking with newfound glee.

"No, no, it says 'Rolande'…"

"No, it doesn't; it says 'Ronalde!'" Chris shot back. "Sounds as if you have a thing for him, the fat jackass!"

"What are you talking…"

"Dude, you like, like, a fat kid?" offered Rich, by now his sides aching more than Aiken's ever did before he died. "Good thing, I don't think he's spoken for…unless you count his passion for Seon and his entire supermarket!"

"Don't be a smart ass!" cried the once-formidable nomadic Leon as he took a step towards the survivors. "I…UNGH!"

He then slobbered to the floor as Michelle's bucket glanced off his skull. Sure enough, the furtive Feltz had stealthily snuck atop the scaffold while the melee, then momentary merriment, had ensued.

"Did I get him! I did! I got him!" she yelped as she hopped around with satisfaction for a second. As the turbaned Leon shook his head to regain his senses, Mindy ran to the other Leon and proffered her baguette.

"Here, Agent Kennedy…eat this," she said quickly. "It's no first-aid aerosol like I know you Raccoonites might be used to…but it does the trick pretty well."

Nodding painfully, Leon lifted the bread to his lips and downed it in about three bites. He placed his hand on Mindy's shoulder for support a second, then rose again to his feet. The combat knife was still on him; unlike his guns, he didn't lose it when he was assailed last.

"Leon…" he grunted gutturally as he stepped forward with the weapon, poised to bring it down upon his enemy. He never thought he'd kill another with the same name as his own.

Unfortunately, this grunt betrayed him as the target Leon then realized where his enemy was, and responded accordingly with a surprising spin backhand that sent Kennedy yet again against the scaffold. Before the agent could descend to the floor once more, his opponent lifted him off his feet in a nasty chokehold.

"Prepare to die," the enemy Leon grumbled generically as he tightened his grip. All around him, Kennedy heard the cries of the others as they attacked the enemy with all they had, with none of the assaults finding any purchase. Michelle had returned to the floor and was whapping the man with a stepladder, but the bad Leon held fast his grip. Rich whipped out a nail gun and fired—but it really ended up misfiring and striking Michelle instead.

"RICH! YOU JUST NAILED MICHELLE!" screamed Chris.

"I DIDN'T MEAN TO NAIL MICHELLE!" yelled Rich back.

"PUT THAT DOWN BEFORE YOU NAIL MINDY, TOO!"

_So much for not thinking about sexual stuff…_Leon Kennedy thought whimsically as he began he lose consciousness.

Ada…it was really you that I loved…someday…someday I'll see you again…someday…

_Someday, love will find you…_

_Break those, chains that bind you…_

_One night, will remind you…_

He swore he could hear his and his love's song as everything started to go black. But it was probably just his dying memory playing tricks on him.

"HOW WE TOUCHED AND WENT OUR SEPARATE WAYS…"

No.

It wasn't.

"LEON!"

Both Leons looked up as they viewed another female figure on the scaffold.

But this was no bucket-buffeting black babe.

It was none other than Leon's lady…Ada Wong.

"LEON, CATCH!"

His strength renewed at hearing his true love's voice, Leon looked up and reached for the long black object heading towards his head. He felt invigorated as his fingers gripped something familiar…a machine gun…more potent and than any automatic than he'd ever wielded…

…and yet it was just termed a "typewriter."

Leon Kennedy nonetheless took the weapon, aimed at the other Leon's chest, and typewrote his ass just before his opponent could end his life—and just as Steve Perry ended the chorus to Their Song, which played over the PA system.

"Leon, Leon…" Ada crooned as she hopped off the scaffold and approached her husband. The opponent Leon was on the floor and out for the count. "I managed to get here just in time, I assume."

"Y-yeah," Leon managed, about fifteen minutes later, when a couple of orange juices from Seon's helped him find his voice in his previously strangled throat.

Ada failed to apologize, as it was just like Ada, and continued, "I was away because I was thinking for a while…thinking of the name for our boy. It's not right, you know?"

Leon managed a smile through his agony-wracked face.

"I found another name that's good…even better…something that really completes him."

"R-really?" whispered Leon hoarsely.

"Yes, my love," she said. "A name so noble, reflective of a man with such valor and temerity."

Leon looked down for a second, blushing…expecting the words "Leon Kennedy, Jr." to spill from his woman's mouth.

She slapped her hands to her hips, smiled, and said, simply, "Frank!"

"Wh…wha?"

"Frank, Leon! This photojournalist…he helped and saved all these people here. Possibly the only guy who could measure up to John…and, well, you I guess…Frank West. And by 'another name' I meant middle name, it's a perfect middle name…so we'll name our son John Francis Kennedy!"

_Well, at least she didn't say "Fitzgerald,"_ thought the Republican Leon as he leaned his head back against the support nearby.

As Ada helped her spouse to his feet, Leon thought groggily of several women once more, thought of perhaps writing Ingrid, or writing Ashley at some point.

Or typewriting Ada.

MALLGOERS: 2

EVILDOAERS: 2


	2. Battles 5 through 8

ENCOUNTER FIVE: CLIFF HUDSON, FREDDIE MAY, CLAIRE REDFIELD, AND

ENCOUNTER FIVE: CLIFF HUDSON, FREDDIE MAY, CLAIRE REDFIELD, AND

SHERRY BIRKIN VERSUS BAYMAN

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, CRISLIP'S HOME SALOON,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 6:20AM

The brush spread before Gunny Sergeant Hudson seemed slightly out of season, or no…something even stranger than out of season. He couldn't figure it out. Never before had he beheld vegetation so blue and uniform, with its odd, grid-like patterns. Perhaps the defoliants mutated the bush beyond comprehension, he couldn't tell.

But the way each clump was attached to four plainly visible pressure mines near the bottom…and so many clumps stuck together…it had to be some sort of distraction, some diversion from the real trap that was lying somewhere, the tripwire he had to find.

The soldier carefully clambered around the edge of the blue brush and crouched behind the rightmost clump, watching through it for any signs of life.

He had to be careful...this was a strange area he occupied, a klatch of klicks away from the fields to which he was accustomed. Gunny Hudson wasn't even sure if this was Vietnam anymore…he saw a huge sign about an hour ago, while he was foraging in the boonies, that said "Seon's"…he knew full well that "seon" was Korean for "zen"; for all he knew, he might have traveled through time while he wasn't looking. …Not forward to any time that made sense, like 2006 or anything; no, backward rather, back to his tour in Pyongyang.

The word "Park," not far away on a pamphlet shuffling on the ground, had suggested Korea as well: a common last name for his old enemy. But it was coupled with another word alongside: the paper was torn so he couldn't see the whole thing, but it said "Park Vie…" Perhaps it had said "Park Viet"? But Korea didn't share boundaries with Vietnam…

Perhaps he'd died and gone to hell. His two worst nightmares, converged into one.

Oh no.

Through the blue brush he saw the two of them. His worst weakness.

Gai Mai Dam.

Vietnamese prostitutes.

This was most certainly a snoop n' poop that was quickly becoming a snafu.

"Sherry, we have to get ready…we'll never see my brother again if you go and fingerpaint with every can of finish you see."

"I'm sorry!" piped up the young girl at the biker chick's side as the latter scrubbed paint off the hands of the former. "I can't help it if I'm too artsy fartsy for my own good!"

Claire Redfield's brow furrowed as she continued the clean the mentally juvenile twenty-year-old. Sherry Birkin's life had just cleared a score of years, yet she still retained the same single-digit-aged mentality she had when she was coursing through the sewers of Raccoon, trying to understand and escape her wayward, wicked parents at the same time. In fact, Sherry's coping mechanism even caused her to go backward a little, back in time…kind of like Gunny Hudson.

All Claire wanted was to find her sibling Chris again. She'd lost her brother to fate more times than Arthur had lost Prin-Prin to demons…or lost his boxers to a homeless photojournalist. But she'd gotten a lead that he was not in Europe, or Africa, or anything exotic like that—but rather right here in the States, in an anonymous mall in the Mountain Time Zone.

But as soon as she broke into this place, she had some sort of placard thrust in her face—if she wanted any answers, some whimsical woman named La Colmilla told her, she'd have to compete.

And the next thing she knew, she was shunted into this "Saloon."

"You there."

Claire wheeled around to face the voice behind her.

"Cai nay giia bao nhieu?"

"WHAT?!" squeaked Sherry, still showered in Sherwin-Williams.

"Oh…" said Gunny Hudson, clearing his throat, "You Viet girls around here speak English, do you? I was just asking how much you might cost…"

"Umm…we're not…those type of girls, sir," said Claire.

"Oh, you mean…you mean you'd do it for free, then? For pleasure only?"

"No! I meant…"

"I'm out of _dong_ anyway, my dear lady," the Gunny said, pointing to his bloodied pockets to show he was out of the Vietnamese currency. He then indicated his gunny sack.

"I'm not out of this _dong_, though…"

"What're you _thinkin'_?"

Another voice.

The Sarge instinctively stepped ahead of the "hookers" to protect them and confront the newcomer. He saw before him another male, decked out in a garish blue jacket, light-colored khakis, and the googliest of glasses. He didn't have to be told to know that this was all a front. A disguise.

"We need to gather all the stuff we can to fight our opponent…" the new person ranted as the veteran scanned him up and down. A second later, he'd measured him fully.

"I know who you are…" Gunny Hudson started. He took a step closer to the man and pulled out his machete. In response, the blue bejacketed one took three steps back.

"You're Charlie, aren't ya? You're the Charlie who set those pressure mines in fours over there…" The soldier pointed towards what to him was odd blue brush—and what to Claire, Sherry, and anyone else with a remotely functional mind was a bunch of shopping carts. "I've been lyin' in wait for…"

"A-a-actually, I'm not Charlie. I'm Freddie!" the man stammered. "F-Freddie May."

Hudson paused for a second, staring at the sheen of blood on his blade as he tried to figure out what the code. "Freddie…May, huh? As in, Freddie May Frag his superior officer if he doesn't like his orders?" He pointed his machete suggestively before him.

"NO! It's like…it's like, Freddie May be…May be one…one of the Friendlies! I'm…I'm Freddie of the Friendlies! Freddie…"

"I'm SHERRY the Friendly!" the two-year-old-minded twenty-year-old shrieked nearby. Claire immediately turned to shush her.

"I'm a Friendly!" the man called Freddie insisted as he continued to not take his eyes off of Hudson's ensanguined weapon. "A Friendly! I swear! A Fr…"

"FROGGY!"

All eyes went skyward as Gunny Sergeant Hudson shouted the word and pointed above him. The opaque mantle of an obsidian parachute blotted out the entire scope of the ceiling as its owner, an imposing brute all clad in black, hovered slowly to the ground, landing only feet away.

"Back…all of you! Di di mau!" The Gunny's non-machete hand waved the other three behind him. "Behind that brush over there!"

Sherry indeed ran over to hide behind the cluster of carts while Freddie dragged Claire off by a sleeve of her Hells' Angels/Pagans/Crypts/Bloods/Lime Chiffon jacket. "HEY! What're you…Sherry!" cried the younger of the Redfield siblings as she was ushered down an aisle of the hardware lair.

Gunny Hudson glared at the slate-clad invader with steel etched into his irises. "I didn't call in any SEALS, any Frogmen…especially paratrooping ones…"

"Not Frogman," uttered the gigantic galoot before the Gunny. "Bayman."

He was covered in scuba gear from head to toe, or rather, snorkel to flipper. This "Bayman" wore more black than the Sarge did blood at the moment, and before the soldier could evaluate the indoor-skydiving-interloper any further, he found himself being the subject of a most unpleasant body check. Bayman could gain ground and attack that fast, his size belying his stealth.

"What a pathetic sight," the enemy said as he executed a jumping shoulder check this time, then another ground body check against the Gunny. "Is that your own blood that's all over you?"

_A Russian accent,_ Sergeant Hudson noted as Bayman finished his rhetorical question. _I'm not in the Vietnam War, or the Korean War…this is none other than the Cold War…except right now it's pretty…unf…hot._

The Sarge tried to block the incoming blows with the flat of his blade, but Bayman was too quick for him. He buckled a second under his adversary's flippers as a floppy rendition of advancing axe kicks came his way.

"We've got to help that guy out there…that must be our opponent," said Claire from around the corner, first indicating the Gunny, then the Russkie.

"Yeah, he must be the one that crazy lady wanted us to fight," agreed Freddie. "Look…you go get your little girlfriend…I'll create a diversion. Oh…and take this, too."

He flipped open one mailbox among many in a certain array for sale.

"There's a gun inside," Claire purred sultrily as she reached in and took out the postal pistol. She didn't comprehend it herself, but sometimes danger really aroused her and made her sound really horny. She sounded that same way, way back in 1998 when she pulled a similar firearm out of a glove box after she first met her one-time-love, Leon Kennedy. Perhaps she might find him here as well as her brother. Then she'd really be turned on.

"Yeah…well…use it to defend yourself, if the need arises," said Freddie, over his shoulder, as he prepared to take on what appeared to be an insurmountable Soviet assassin.

"Hey! Charlie Guy!" he shouted, tossing a shower head the Gunny's way. "Use that against Batman there, if you can!"

"That is _Bay_man, not _Bat_man," retorted Bayman stolidly with his thick ass accent as he looked up a second to see Freddie's bifocaled face. "I…ugggh!"

The part-Estonian executioner paused from his physical punishment of the Vietnam veteran a second as he struggled with the shower nozzle that was shooting water out of the top of his head. To the Sarge's dismay, the shower head did not emit blood, as it did with countless undead he had encountered in Crislip's (whom he all thought were inebriated VCs), but rather emitted none other than plain old H2O.

"Ahh…that is good, that is good," said Bayman as he loosened his grip on Hudson a second to remove the washroom implement. "I was all waterlogged anyway…my _zopa_ was starting to itch." He looked behind him and eyed said _zopa_, which signified the buttocks in his native language. "Thank you, _tovarisch_."

"Hey, don't mention it, Bayrat," Freddie continued to taunt, stepping around the corner and getting a bit more dangerously close to the assassin. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"No, I said it is Bay_man_, not Bay_rat_…I am from Kyrgyzstan, and…"

"Are you sure it's not Kazakhstan, Bayrat?" Freddie was much closer to some of the back isles by now, which had many more tools…and weapons. He mocked Bayman in a weird, foreign-feigning voice. "A-this diving suit, is _nooooot_ black!"

"GOVNOSOS!" cursed the brute in his native tongue, calling Freddie something that no one reading needs to know. The Russian rushed at the Willamettan as soon as he found his feet.

Freddie ducked behind one corner, then around another, as Bayman hustled after. As soon as he rounded into the next aisle, his faceplate met with a disembodied skylight regularly on display.

Bayman went down for a second, and Freddie stood over him for that period of time, satisfied that he managed to get the enemy. This satisfaction was short-lived, however, as the Soviet superstar picked himself back up with incalculable speed, grabbed Freddie by both shoulders, and kneed him in the stomach.

"I read your every move," the assassin chuckled cruelly, "and I don't even need…oversized glasses like yours to do it."

On the bloody floor, Freddie winced, more at the horrifying absence of wit Bayman possessed than anything else.

"Now I will crush you like…like…kaff kaff kaff kaff"

The Baymaster gagged uncontrollably as a purplish-pink mist settled into the immediate area. The Gunny looked on in with glee as he watched Bayman succumb to the vapors emanating from the flare he just threw, then looked on with as much gloom as Freddie seemed to give in to the gas as well.

"Damn it! Ah well, one good fume deserves another…"

Before Bayman could fully recover from the flare, Gunny Sergeant Hudson whipped out another flare, set it alight, then grabbed his enemy from behind and placed the object down his snorkel.

Myriad grunts in all sorts of Soviet dialects then ensued as Bayman struggled with his breathing apparatus. The Sarge took advantage of the brief furlough afforded by this by holding his breath, diving into the gassed-out aisle, and dragging his compatriot out of there.

On the other side of the store, Claire was trying several times in vain to get Sherry to get moving again.

"Hurry, Sherry…we've got to get to higher ground! It's not safe here…not with that frogman around here."

"Frog…man?" asked Sherry curiously. "Like Kermit and stuff?"

"No…well, yeah…sort of. Except he's a bad Kermit. You know, like Spiderman and then bad Spiderman, with the darker costume? That's like evil Kermit over there, with the dark suit." Claire thumbed over in the general direction of the guys fighting in Crislip's.

"Okay! Well, maybe if we try, though, we can make the evil Kermit nice."

"I don't really think so." Claire grabbed Sherry under her arms. "Come on, let's go." They headed towards a relatively climbable area of the store.

"Ohh…_Tatianova_," Bayman cried, invoking the name of the irresistible Soviet super spy—and his middle school crush—as he removed the last of his diving gear. Underneath he had this gray getup with everything from camos to a stainless-steel-hued beret that would make Jill Valentine pause.

The kid gloves and flippers were surely off now.

Bayman turned to face what he expected to be two men now—but found only one when he finished his whirl. That bloody fishing-gear-looking guy. (Bloody as in literally bloody, not snooty British "bloody").

"Mercy is not an option, you maggot," murmured the crazed killer.

"Oh, I'm not planning to be merciful," replied Gunny Sergeant Hudson. "I'm ending this Cold War right now—with my bare hands. …And, well, with this foot and a half of steel as well."

He held up his machete…but then took off down a back aisle before Bayman could reply.

"What is? Come back and fight, coward!"

Just as Bayman reached the small cubbyhole into which the Sarge had crawled, a small silver thing came to rest at his feet. Before he could register what it was, it exploded into a fiery haze, sending him back onto his zopa.

"I'll gouge your eyes out, you Communist," swore Hudson from above. Somehow he had reached the tops of the risers through the small portals in the floor, which seemed to lead only to the store's basement.

Apparently he wasn't the only one to make this discovery, though, as he espied the "prostitutes" he noticed from before perched on another riser.

"You're up here…in the trees…with me, too, belles of Saigon?" he asked them. He thrust his machete toward them to emphasize his interrogatory.

At this point, both Sherry's inner and outer children freaked out in unison. "CLAIRE!" she yelped, calling her companion by her name for the first time in at least twenty minutes.

But, for Gunny Sergeant Cliff Hudson, it was the first time in almost four days that he'd heard that name…out loud, anyway.

_CLAIRE…_

_CLAIRE…_

_"CLAIRE!"_

_"GRAMPS!"_

All at once, the horrific memories of the present—not those of 1956, or 1966, but instead 2006—came flooding back to Cliff.

Was she here?

"Wh-what did you say, little one?!" cried Cliff, as he looked again to what were once, to him, call girls, but were now just ordinary girls.

"I…I…"

"Claire?! You…"

Cliff didn't have time to finish the sentence as he was suddenly gripped from behind, shoved, then pinned to the ground. Bayman wrenched the soldier's neck back upon finishing the pin, nearly breaking the neck vertebrae.

"All threats have been eliminated," said Bayman triumphantly as he began to lift himself and a wearied Cliff Hudson to his feet, preparing to send the American opponent to the floor, a story below, with a good right hook. "Checkmate."

"No…CHINQUI, BAYRAT!"

Bayman turned at the sound just in time…

To see Freddie May, whom he thought was out cold, come straight at his family jewels with a hedge trimmer.

"NYET!" he cried as he deflected the gardening tool at the last possible manhood-preserving second. He then roundhouse kicked Freddie away.

Bayman could not turn back around around, however, as he found Cliff's machete, protruding through his chest, made that sort of difficult.

"Enemy has been neutralized, repeat, enemy has been neutralized," said Gunny Sergeant Hudson, to no one in particular. As he returned to the gory ground of Crislip's, his mind reeled, intending to relent again and swaddle the man in shellshock once more…

…Then he saw the two call girls…no, ordinary girls…the ones who invoked his granddaughter's name…the granddaughter who ate it, or rather was eaten, a few days back…and Cliff found himself shunted back into the present.

"You…," he said to the older and much more mature one, "are you alright?"

Although she was a bit scared to death, Claire Redfield gave the man a suggestive look. "Still in one piece," she lilted flirtatiously.

Yeah, a large percentage of the woman herself couldn't understand it either.

Just as Freddie May stepped back onto the hardware store floor as well, Cliff looked back up to the tops of the risers.

Their common enemy…gone. Could have been back in old Mother Russia at this moment, for all he knew. Apparently he was also still in one piece, despite the soldier's dangerous, damning blade.

The veteran, ex-grandfather, and now ex-psychopath—humanized once more at hearing his granddaughter's name—looked to Claire Redfield for answers, as if her sharing same handle as his dearly departed would somehow offer an explanation as to why his own flesh and blood was so gruesomely seized from him.

MALLGOERS: 3

EVILDOAERS: 2

ENCOUNTER SIX: KAY NELSON, KELLY CARPENTER, LILLY DEACON, AND JANET STAR VERSUS KASUMI

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, PARADISE PLAZA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 6:40AM

"So where is our lofty, aloof opponent anyway?" asked the dorky yet well-endowed blonde to her scantily-clothed companion, as the first woman looked at some musical equipment in the TuneMakers. "What, does he or she want us to wait all day?"

Said scant-clad second woman replied, "I don't know, Janet. I have no idea what this 'La Colmilla' or any of the other crap means. All I can say is, bring 'em on. I'm still pissed about what happened back at the Fashion House with that Miss Piggy/Boss Hog nightmare, and I want some payback. I'd be more than happy to take it out on whomever's showing up to fight us."

Kay Nelson then juggled a couple of toys she got from Ye Olde Toybox as she looked over to her old friend Kelly, who was rummaging around in the Entertainment Isle looking to scam a few albums. "You almost done in there, Kell? I have a feeling our bad guy…or girl, as the case may be…might be showing up soon!"

Inside, the child of the eighties (who was really born in 1987 and probably had no first-hand memory of the decade actually) hemmed and hawed as she looked around. "What kind of music store is this? Look at this crapola! Yellow…card? Maroon 5? What the eff?! Where's their Smiths? Where's their Bangles? Where's any of the Flock albums?"

"Kelly…"

"This is the PITS! What a bunch of goobers…"

"KELLY!"

"Oh, alright. Take a red, McFly."

The rather loudly dressed Kelly Carpenter tumbled out of the store abruptly, with her Vans squeaking all over the place. "Where's Lilly?" she asked.

"Coming…" sounded an echoey voice from across the way, at the Sandwiches place.

"Lills!" cried Janet, who was just jubblin' out of the instruments store, "How much did you eat in there?" She pointed to Lilly's long-sleeved and mildly-stained top. "What, do you have, like, five asses?"

"No, okay? It's just, like, I was feelin' like, 'Phew, I'm hungry,' and I decided to help myself a bit, okay?"

Kay shook her head and laughed. "Girl, I don't know how you keep your figure."

"I don't eat like this all the time, alright?" Lilly shot back, pouting. "And it's not like I have to watch out too much like you, since I don't let it all hang out quite like yourself, with your belly all open and your exposed cheeks and…"

"Come on, come on, Lill, no need to be illin'," Kelly cut in, reassuringly, "Kay-o's just messin with you…she's just jealous 'cause she's a total airhead and her scalp has just a scoshe less hair than yours…"

"I am not! It does not!" protested K-Nel. "Are you nuts?!"

"Please…rest quietly…I am here."

All four girlfriends hushed up and turned at the sound of the new voice, which seemed to report from out of nowhere.

"Who said that?" said…oh, it doesn't matter. All four of these girls are so fungible anyway.

At any rate, the question was answered a second later as there appeared, in a whirl of fruity lilies or cherry blossoms or whatever the hell, a young, luscious, nubile, yet superlatively cloying woman dressed in little more than what Kay wore. Specifically, she had on a cream-colored lady-ninja-sort of getup with red around the fringes. Her hair was auburn, her eyes basically the same, and nary a blemish inhabited her basically heart-shaped, perfect face.

At least to the other four women, she was, in other words, pretty much disgusting.

"I am your opponent for this morning's competition," continued the new, sickeningly immaculate woman. "I am called: Kasumi: the _Kunoichi_ of Destiny."

Janet scrunched up her face, already pretty much saccharined out. "Coochie-what?!"

"No…_kunoi_…oh, nevermind. I must fight to survive. La Colmilla has enlisted my assistance in defeating your hordes, and though it is not my wish to engage in combat, it appears that I nonetheless must do so. The will of the _kunoichi_ and my mistress, La Colmilla, is my own. If I can't avoid this battle, so be it."

"Did she just call us 'whores'?" Kelly whispered to Lilly nearby.

"I think she said 'hordes,' Kells," Lilly replied. "Though I wouldn't put it past her either, as to what you thought."

"Wait a damn second, just…wait a navel-lint-picking moment," said Kay, who was having just such a moment as she was listening to the incoming ninja. "I know who you are. Huh…I can't believe it…guys, we're fighting the chick from that game! That game from, like the late nineties? On the old Playstation, with all the elastic boobies and stuff…"

"Oh yeah!" realized Janet, who crossed her arms over her considerable chest. "My boyfriend left me back in the day so he could play with that…pixelly pervert orgy all day! Couldn't handle the real thing, I guess."

"Oh my God!" chimed in Kelly. "You're that cheesecake whom my brother bopped it to, all those years back! You filthy narbo!"

"Yeah!" said Lilly. "And my boyfriend, too…"

Kay, Kelly, and Janet all shot a glance at Lilly, and she knowingly blushed. This, of course, was crazy talk: Lilly'd never had a boyfriend before.

"I am innocent, like the delicate, ephemeral lilies that herald my dainty arrival," announced Kasumi. "I am a princess of the highest order."

"Well, there's about to be a coup in the royal court, honey, so you'd better be ready," admonished Kay to Kasumi, who was atop the fountain near the Leisure Park entrance when she appeared. The latter lady leapt most gracefully from her perch to land directly in front of the former.

"I must do this…for the sake of La Colmilla, and my people," said the princess.

"These…barbaric women…with their midriffs bare and their minds barren…I must teach them."

"You don't exactly have a lot going on in the bundled-up department yourself, there, honey," said Kay, taking a step towards her opponent and using a red saucer (alias frisbee) to reach for the flap of her costume resting on her stomach. "In fact, I'd say your tummy's pretty much as accessible as…"

"HANDS OFF, SISTER!" cried the _Kunoichi_ as she did a pert, downward wave gesture with her right hand that resembled the pose she did when selected as a character in her own game. "I alone have say and hold sway on who may touch me."

Before Kay could offer any rejoinder, Kasumi flounced forward and floored her with four quick chops, then a reverse elbow. All of the mallrat's toys flew out of her hands upon this transaction, and she billowed to the ground unceremoniously.

Regardless, Kay, the fighter that she naturally was, managed to right herself a moment later. Unfortunately, her pretty features then met with one of Kasumi's long-legged high kicks, which sent her down once more.

Her first foe downed, at least for a little while, Kasumi settled into a readily flexible fighting stance, pivoting around as she faced all three of Kay's friends from three different directions.

"Don't make me do this…please," she said as she looked first to Janet. "I don't want to fight…but I have no choice!"

"Gimme a friggin' break, Nell Carter," Kelly shot back. "Of course you have a choice. You could submit, as the rules say. You self-indulgent, self-absorbed twit."

"I'm…I'm not submitting to the likes of you," Kasumi said through gritted yet gaggingly gleaming teeth. "For I am innocent, like the affable tree branch upon which I rest my lithe form while escaping from dastardly _shinobi_."

"Huh!?" said Lilly. Although she was by far the most intelligent of the four friends, even she couldn't grasp this BS rhetoric.

"Innocent my shapely ass," said Janet, as she brandished a bowling ball of a greater size than that of her bosoms, if it could be imagined. "You act like you're so perfect, so pure…ha. You are simply nothing less than the biggest scam that's ever graced the pixilated screen. All the poor fanboys who drool and salivate, being led on and dreaming that someone like you actually exists out there! My God, you are such a glorified whore. You make Mai Shiranui look like Ms. Pac-Man."

"NO! I am innocent, like the…"

"Like, like, the innocent little boys who, like, buy Itagaki's crap and then see you on the screen, with all your preening and posing?" Kelly offered as she wielded the boomerang that Kay dropped. "I heard you, like, stripped for the Chippendales back in the day…is that right? Maybe instead of, like, lilies or whatever, you should have, like, dollar bills flying all over the place when you teleport in and out."

"I'm…I'm a princess…my precious lilies…I don't have to stand for this…"

"Huh," said Lilly, on another side of Kasumi, "you want lilies? I'll give you lilies!" And then, just as the princess turned around to face the most recent Willamette speaker, she was coldcocked—hard—by Lilly Deacon. The delicate Kasumi willowed instantly to the ground.

"Aww, does it hurt, Kasumi-chan?" taunted Lilly as she stood over Kasumi. "Are you in pain, Kasumi-chan? Here, let me make it better, Kasumi-chan!!"

And then, without hesitating, Lilly ran up and kicked her adversary—right in her Kasumi-chin.

Spitting on the overrated royalty, Lilly finished, before stepping back, "Yours is the face of every demon a fanboy sees when he dies and goes to hell."

"No!" whimpered the princess as she picked herself up off the ground, then was stunned as Kelly's boomerang glanced off her face. "This can't happen! I am innocent…like the…like the flowers of the fields and…WILL YOU JUST STOP IT YOU BITCHES!"

This last after Janet's ball bowled Kasumi over onto her hardly-covered haunches.

By this point Kay was up and back on her feet. "Did we take a little spill, princess?" she said, eying her enemy's exposed undergarments as she walked towards her and whipped out a stun-gun she got from Lovely Fashion House. "Let's see just how much of a prim, proper prude you are, you little skank."

Though Kasumi spun back onto her feet and tried a backhand bitch chop just at the moment, Kay dodged it easily, her bloodlust making her reflexes all the more keen. She then moved in with the taser, and as Kasumi backed up, expectedly, Kay quickly ducked as an incoming pie passed over her and struck the _kunoichi_ straight in her prissy puss.

"Awesome, Kelly," said Kay with much approval as she then took the blinded Kasumi by the shoulders and threw her onto her massive mammaries.

"Yeah, it was pretty ace, wasn't it?" Kelly then looked at the opponent struggling to again get up. "Looks as if our finicky yuppie is busting at the seams! Must be pretty sore, I know your breasticles are utter blar! Do we have a boo-boo now, bow-head? And I didn't say boob-boob!"

"All right, Kelly, you can, like, quit while you're ahead," said Kay.

"Like, Kay, sue me."

"WHAT!!" yelled Kasumi from the floor, thinking that Kelly had just said her name. She choked on a bit of coconut cream as she mewled on. "This can't be…can't be happening! I will triumph! I must!"

"Yeah, triumph…like the stupid dog on TV," said Kay as she kicked Kasumi in the back and watched as her friends all gathered guitars from TuneMakers. "Your deceptive image and phony scruples are good…FOR ME TO POOP ON!"

Kay then saw Kelly with an electric guitar, Lilly with a bass, and Janet with an acoustic, and wondered what the heck they were up to. It didn't really matter; all that meant anything to her was trouncing this trumped-up slut. "Please…get back up," she said to her adversary, who was still trying to do so herself, but could not.

Kay took the helpless, hapless Kasumi by the hand and led her to the waterway by the large windows. She propped her up right in front of the small canal and took out her taser again.

"Wh…wh…why…" was all the princess could get out by this point.

Kay glared at her hard. "Because you're a sham…and a lie…and most of all…"

She lifted up Kasumi's costume's front flap, exposing the ninja's midriff.

"You're all washed up!"

Kay punched into Kasumi's soft stomach with the stun-gun, shocking the stuffing and the stuffiness out of her, and sending her ludicrously voluptuous form into the waterway.

"AAAAAAGGGHHH!" the forlorn _kunoichi_ wailed as she landed hard into the drink. Small ripples mingled with the pie ingredients on her face as her lighter-than-air frame began to float down the small channel. As she proceeded down the canal, she became a bit more serene, and a moment later she began comforting herself by singing the song she sang as a mermaid in her loveliest, most fluttering of dreams.

She only got as far as the beginning of the fourth line's "Hoo-ooh," however, before Kay cut in with one of her patented "HEY!"s. Kasumi stopped in midfloat to see the other woman holding her stun-gun with only her forefingers over the waterway, threatening to drop it in.

"Come on, Kay-o, get on the drum kit!" shouted Kelly from across the plaza near the guitar store.

"Sure thing, K-Car!" said Kay as she ran to said percussion, which was actually just a couple of upturned garbage cans.

Janet then took the lead on her acoustic, singing to mock the princess's siren anthem:

_She will not sleep alone, never again…_

_Won't be ashamed, although googols of guys…_

_Fake all the sappiness, just to get her…_

_Hoo-ooch…_

"YAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH-AHH-AHH-AHH-AHH-AHH!!" screamed Kasumi from the waterway, just as she did while caught in the net in her dream…but with much more anguish, fluster, and disgrace.

MALLGOERS: 4

EVILDOAERS: 2

(Ryu to Kasumi): "You must finish this by your own hand…slut."

Other Ryu Lines You Can Use: "Prepare to face me"

(Prepare to get out of my life, Kasumi)

"Nothing can penetrate the pureness of my spirit"

(Nothing can penetrate the frigidity of your…(sexual organ)

"I am like the driftwood on the whitewater currents"

ENCOUNTER SEVEN: RAY MATHISON, SIMONE RAVENDARK, GORDON STALWORTH, AND RACHEL DECKER VERSUS ELIOT

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, LEISURE PARK, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 7:00AM

Never did Ray Mathison ever believe he would set eyes upon a blonde as beautiful as Simone Ravendark. She was suave and svelte, comely and keen, the demure dream which he had been awaiting all of his thirty-one summers.

And never could Gordon Stalworth imagine catching sight of a golden-tressed goddess quite as radiant as Rachel Decker. Indeed, no Al Frescan, be it someone as young and hardy as Burt Thompson, or as not-as-young and pudgy as Gordon himself, could resist the allure of that Lady, who occupied the men's survivor Space so sexily.

Both individuals would be proven incorrect in the ensuing seconds.

Well, make that _for_ the ensuing seconds…if not anything more than that.

The survivors made sure to stay on the side of the reflecting pool that was farthest from the ever-respawning mobs of undead all around them. Simone adjusted her sets of CDs that she scammed from Players; they would serve as good shuriken substitutes for purposes of the match. Similarly, Rachel made sure her handbag from her own store of origin was in good working order.

Unfortunately, of course, the men in the party were not so resourceful, and as such neither Ray nor Gordon brought anything from Colby's or McHandy's, respectively. But that was okay; anything and everything was a weapon, at the Willamette Park View Mall.

That was one of the proposed slogans of the shopping center when it was first built, in fact. But it was ultimately passed on in favor of something a bit more simpatico.

The Willamettans would all be safe around the area they presently inhabited…so La Colmilla promised them. The cowled, decorated warlady arranged it so that other DOA contestants would scour the open, green area and rid it of as many monsters as possible…and not interfere in the scheduled battle, so she vowed.

But nothing could prepare the males of the quartet for the lovely individual coming their way, slowly but deliberately around the manmade lake.

_She's…she's incredible…_the dollfaced Ray marveled to himself as he took in the features and figure of the yellow-maned wanderer from afar. Amber shocks adorned fine, slender shoulders, and shined above a slight, if alluring, bodice, all blue and white. Gordon's mind was in the same place as the Movieland refugee, and he wondered for a moment if he should just submit outright, once this most recent headmistress of his heart finished her approach towards the four.

As she winded closer, Ray's heart leapt into his throat at the dainty steps she took, one foot in front of the other.

As she winded closer, Gordon's mind began to cloud with all sorts of newfound impulses of infatuation, watching her hands work up and down as she came closer.

As she winded closer, the details of the face became more clear, very tomboyish, sort of masculine, but very young. Almost manly, actually.

Then…"she" spoke.

"Prepare for battle," enunciated a young, puerile inflection, sounding just like that of a sixteen-year old boy.

That was because it _was_ a sixteen-year old boy who was speaking.

Looking much more closely at their seemingly gorgeous opponent, Ray and Gordon then realized that maybe they would be better off with their previous respective Coloradan crushes.

"You're…you're a guy," said Ray in disbelief as well as disheartenment.

"You bet your gangly ass I'm a guy," replied said opponent. "And I'm gonna be the last guy you'll ever encounter on this earth. Prepare to be eviscerated by…ELIOT!"

The kid punctuated this last word with overly much pomp and force, as well as very contrived breathing exercises. He let his hands splay forth before him, creating virtual steppes in the air with his fingers as he worked through his preparatory respiratory routines.

"You're a guy…" repeated Simone softly to herself. She couldn't believe it either…and apparently, neither could Gordon or Rachel, from the looks on their faces.

Eliot had his eyes closed at the moment, as he was concentrating on the breaths that flowed in and out of his frail frame. "You'll all be certain I'm a boy…er, a _man_…when I'm through with you." He then opened his eyes and looked at his opponents in full for the first time. He saw Ray, Rachel, and Gordon. "I don't plan on sparing anyone the ability to breathe, like I'm doing now, when I'm all d—"

Then the kid laid eyes on Simone.

And then the last intended word from his mouth, "done," instantly was substituted with…

"Damn."

Eliot's breathing halted for the most pregnant, knocked-up of nanoseconds as he took in the slim drink of sprightly spring water that was Simone Ravendark.

Simone noticed this in no time, and blushed in reaction; Rachel laughed, and Gordon chuffed a bit to himself as well.

Ray raged within.

How dare this haughty hermaphrodite attempt to interpose between himself and the woman he adored.

"I'll have…I'll have a hard time, milady," Eliot started to Simone, stammering in spite of himself, "fighting someone so pretty, I must say."

"Ha HA!" responded Simone with her uncharacteristic, inappropriate scoff-laugh, the same one she perpetrated upon being discovered in a corner of Players by a tatterdemalioned journalist who existed below the poverty line.

Eliot burned on the surface much more than Ray did beneath the skin at this. Show stopping, eye popping ladies always knocked him on his ass with laughter when he attempted to flatter. So did it occur when he tried to come on to Christie back at DOATEC, and so it occurred again now.

"I don't believe," began Simone, "that you're exactly my kind of guy, El. I like my men a bit older…and a bit taller…"

Upon hearing the girl's words, Ray's heart again went upward. As did something else anatomically pertaining to him.

"…and a bit darker, in hair and complexion…" continued Simone, as Ray readied himself to dive at her feet and propose to her, and/or vault atop her skeletal system, right then and there.

"…like my _boyfriend_, for instance."

After these words were spoken, Eliot's face instantly blanched and Ray's…hand- friend deflated into the depths of the Inferno of Dante (…no, not _that_ Dante…not the _other_ video game hermaphrodite, who is indeed in the Capcomverse).

Both men felt, for the umpteenth trillionth time, that cold dagger of depressing-ass reality into their hearts, the one that struck whenever a girl oh-so-subtly revealed to him that she had a guy. No man, not even you, dear reader, can deny that this has happened to you at least a couple of times in your lifespan, no matter what your age.

Of course, Simone didn't let on that her "guy" had already "turned" and all…they didn't need to know that.

Especially Eliot, this seeming blond toad.

"Well, then…" said said Eliot, trying to recover a bit of his bravado—just as Ray was similarly trying not to steal a CD from Simone and slash his throat in despair—"let us not waste any more time. Our span here is short, as disappointing as that may be. Let us fight like there is no tomorrow."

"No tomorrow?!" said Gordon incredulously. "The way things are going around here, with zombies and bombs and more zombies and all, there may not even be a 1:00 p.m.!"

"Enough!" cried Eliot, and, without further ado, hopped up to Gordon and delivered a couple of quick chops to put the portly one down for a moment.

"Gordo, no!" yelled Ray in response. Actually taking his mind off of Simone at least for a second, he whipped out his handgun—the one that was not given to him by Frank West, but rather was hidden from the photojournalist—the secret one that lanky survivors such as Ray Mathison, Josh Manning, and other skinny schmoes would all of a sudden pull out of the interdimensional portal in their wazoos and use only on themselves if cornered by a number of the undead on the way back to the security area.

Ray used this gun now against Eliot, firing off several rounds in rapid succession. Eliot deftly dodged the shots, flipping this way and that—but did not account for the lying-in-wait Rachel Decker, who decked him in the head with her handbag from behind a tree. Eliot staggered and sprawled as he reeled from the heavy blow, as such handbags could claim an unliving creature's "life" with just one strike, after all. In his tumble, he involuntarily reached for Rachel, who shoved him away.

"Get aWAY from me!" she shouted defiantly.

She then watched as Ray came around the nearby trees to take another shot. Seeing the man wield his weapon made the other blonde want him for a fleeting moment. Oh, maybe they could be together, as she once was with Burt…she had a thing for the pipsqueaks of her world. _Rachel and Ray, Rachel/Ray,_ she thought. It did have that nice ring to it, didn't it? They could have dates where she could cook for him, then he could do the same for her…then they could go out and dine on 40 a day. They could find a way to make such culinary endeavors a critical and commercial success. They could enjoy fame and fortune in each others' arms. Then they could sell out to Dunkin' Donuts endorsements and totally blow whatever credibility in cuisine that they carefully built up.

_On second thought,_ Rachel reflected, _maybe things wouldn't work out with Ray._

This realization for some reason made her lose her nerve. She was so affected that she could no longer even stand up, and, indeed, she collapsed to the ground just as Eliot was beginning to again recover. Oh, where was Jolie? Rachel couldn't function for long without her lifemate. She had to get away from all this hostility. She couldn't run, so she settled for a slower, if more sure, crawl, hands-and-knees-ing it away from the scrum with the erstwhile beautiful blonde that was Eliot.

As Rachel absconded, Ray trained his pistol upon Eliot, waiting for the right moment to place one potent projectile right between the boy's eyes. _Make the corpse as ugly as possible, as repulsive to my Simone as can humanly be,_ he thought manically.

"What are you waiting for, Ray?! Shoot the kid!" urged Simone. The uncharacteristic part of her that could scoff and scorn also possessed an insatiable thirst for blood and violence at times, and she wanted Ray to so supply this for her.

Just as Ray was about to pull his mighty trigger, however, his opponent sprung up without warning and performed some sort of double hand chop/shove maneuver that propelled the milquetoast Mathison far across the Leisure hillock upon which he once stood. The movie theater escapee whistled through the air for a few feet, landing in a heap by a tree once congregated about by several zombies.

"Ray! NO!" Simone cried as she reached for her throwing-compact-discs and started to hurl. The enervated virgin that was Ray Mathison wondered in his wooziness whether she screamed out of concern for a fellow survivor…or for a man she perhaps endeavored to deflower? Could that exist beyond his wildest of pipe dreams?

As several projectiles made from polycarbonate plastic struck Eliot in the chest, then the head, Rachel continued to crawl along her merry way. She could swear as she proceeded that someone was watching her from the trees…some sort of spy, or assassin, or ninja.

Indeed, up in the very branches she scanned, a badly bruised Ryu Hayabusa was nursing his wounds. He glared down at the blonde woman, gladdened that another beauteous blonde named Rachel existed in another universe, yet saddened that this Rachel didn't have quite as supple pectoral physics as the Rachel from his dimension.

Rachel Decker was so preoccupied with her paranoia of being monitored that she never saw the other figure inching toward her, right in her line of motion.

She shifted her gaze abruptly, expecting for a second that she would brush with an imminent, awful death for having abandoned her attention on survival.

But instead of clambering right into the arms of an undead monster, she ended up scuttling right into the crawl-path of the other survivor who was presently prone.

And it was there and then, on that Leisure lawn on the 22nd of September, 2006, that Rachel met the love of her life…as she and Gordon Stalworth's eyes met, on their hands and knees a foot and a half off the ground.

Simone began to shudder in despair as she realized that her newest and most fatal CD collection was beginning to wear thin. What could she do? She was almost out of the weapons. And Eliot appeared to be gritting through the polycarbon precipitation, inching steadily toward her through all of the things she threw at him.

Then, just as he was a foot away from her, close enough to cop a vengeful feel for again being thwarted by another boyfriend out in the ether…

…an incoming disc struck him in the back of the head, knocking him down once more.

"Simone, RUN!" hollered Ray as he whipped out, again from his wazoo, his prized collection of DVDs that he took with him everywhere he went. Just as he professed to the brazen photojournalist that he would no longer frequent film theaters, and instead adhere to home viewing, he further cemented his life's pledge to the digital video disc at present by placing all hope of salvation in them as a weapon ensuring his and Simone's deliverance.

Heeding the call of her fellow survivor—and her admirer—Simone booked from the scene as quickly as she could. After all, something else interesting caught her eye from afar, and she didn't want to be around when it inevitably arrived.

"You can't…keep me…at bay…forever…imbecile," chided Eliot as he was again assaulted by synthetic projectiles. "I will overcome…all of the…entertainment paraphernalia that you and the others can throw at me."

"Well, it seems to be working to some extent, little boy," returned Ray as he continued to fire off so many beloved titles from his collection. To his delight, none of them shattered or were otherwise damaged as they bounced off of the tiny figure that was Eliot. "Oh, whaddaya know, here's a DVD of ET!" cried Ray in glee. "Phone home…_Eliot!_"

Eliot, literally in turn, started to spin and dodge a bit faster, his adolescent adrenalin driving him to stay standing and fighting. He couldn't lose at this point. Especially not like this.

After another minute or so of the remaining dispensation of Ray's back-pocket DVD collection, the man found himself dangerously low on ammunition, just as Simone had moments before. And as with Simone, Eliot began to advance toward the survivor, confident that he could take the man down now that all of the discs were doled out.

"As you can see, Ray," Eliot began, "I am stronger, sharper, faster than you or your precious DVDs could ever hope to be. It's a shame you don't have anything more on you…you could at least use one more DVD to cover your ass as I kick it in."

In response, Ray looked over Eliot's shoulder, pointed, and said, "You'd better look out for the lawnmower man, Eliot."

"_The Lawnmower Man_?" Eliot chuckled. "Why should I? You tossed that title at me about, say, a minute and a half ago."

"No…he means _this_ lawnmower!"

Eliot couldn't even turn around to note Gordon's approach as the hefty man whacked the stripling boy with the potent red mower that he lugged across the park. Rachel and Simone looked on lovingly at Gordon and Ray as the latter two then proceeded to set the mower down together, get behind it, and take a run at their junior opponent.

Eliot jumped back onto his feet promptly, but then began to make a break for it at seeing the giant machine lurching toward him. Living in isolation as he had for so many years under the instruction of Gen-Fu made Eliot suspicious, even fearful, of technology. This was part of the reason why the CDs and DVDs were successful at keeping him down for a moment or two…besides the fact that being pelted with several such projectiles at once can smart for anyone, to some extent.

In the instants that followed, the feathery fighter fled from Ray and Gordon and their souped-up lawn apparatus, ducking between trees, benches, and the like as the survivors gave chase. Rachel and Simone cheered approval as their men chased the enemy around.

Finally, Eliot appeared to lose the other guys behind a large oak…at least for a second, it seemed. He watched as Ray and Gordon started to mow off in the other direction, and considered himself safe. Catching his breath and collecting himself, he allowed pleasant thoughts to enter his mind. He thought of Simone, the beautiful blonde, submitting to him, fulfilling his every waking, arousing desire. He thought of a kiss from her, a hug perhaps…a hummer.

He wiped his brow as he indulged in this fantasy for a minute longer.

Then the hummer part became a reality.

But not the hummer that Eliot had in mind…

"COMIN' THRU!!"

Eliot couldn't believe his eyes as a jeep, manned by three orange-clad ruffians, crashed in out of nowhere and began to give a much more maniacal chase than that of the lawnmower moments ago. The boy ran this way and that, huffing and puffing as the humvee horror bore down on him.

"Oh, you gonna get run over, baby!" cried another of the humvee occupants as Eliot did his best to get away. The pairs of Ray and Simone, as well as Gordon and Rachel, linked hands and locked lips, then watched from many safe meters away as the escaped prisoners followed the teenager around the park.

The combatant child's arms pinwheeled this way and that as he struggled to fly from the overbearing verdant transport. The trio of pursuers gave no quarter, however, as they proceeded to drive up his ass and send several heavy machine gun bullets there as well.

The humvee finally reached within yards of Eliot just as he reached the wooden awning in the park, the one that covered the picnic benches and tables. At the moment that the jeep was about to come into contact with the minuscule muscles of his body, he executed an elaborate cartwheel tumble that resulted in a high jump up to the lip of the awning's roof. So narrowly did the boy escape the fate of becoming part of the convicts' vehicle's undercarriage.

The hermaphrodite was almost hyperventilating as he hauled himself up onto the awning roof. Finally, he was away from all those machines. Surely he could take a rest up here, where nothing could touch him.

WHOOOOOOOOOOSH

It was just at that moment when the missile from the incoming Special Forces Chopper struck him right in his oversized forehead.

MALLGOERS: 5

EVILDOAERS: 2

ENCOUNTER EIGHT: FLOYD SANDERS, SUSAN WALSH, DAVID BAILEY, AND

RYAN LAROSA VERSUS GEN-FU

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, SUBTERRANEAN CAVES,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 7:20AM

"I sure hope this plan of yours works, Floyd," said Ryan as he began to heft his geriatric compatriot onto his back. "I ain't lookin' to have a hernia for nothing!"

"It should work, according to my calculations," Floyd replied as he scanned the cavern ahead of him—as well as the legion of undead that filled the space between the walls. "We're all so damn old, but, if things hold up as I anticipated, the aggregate mass of your rock-solid form, my slight physique, and the damaged body of our friend Bailey here should be able to get us through the oncoming mob of monsters."

"Ohhh…whoahhhh…" whimpered David as he looked at the multitude of nasties ahead of them. "I…ohhh…hope we can get through these okay and all…North Plaza was bad enough…I knew I should have taken my Immodium…ohhh…" Indeed, to David the unfinished mall area's shadows were but tiny silhouettes compared to the penumbras of peril created by the blur of beasts before them.

"It's our only chance to get to our opponent…and Sue's only chance as well," replied Floyd readily.

"Well, let's quit whistlin' Dixie and get ourselves along, before Susie gets hurt," muttered the other old man as he gestured for David Bailey nearby to lean on him for shoulder support. Who knew what the bastard they would be fighting had already done to David's cousin, Floyd's love, and Ryan's secret object of lust.

Yes, Susan Walsh was a valuable asset to the team that the four old farts formed; she had the ability to manipulate various spheres and similar objects with astounding ability. Frank West had dubbed her the Insufferable Fart, however, because of her intolerable demands that he become her personal escort, as well as her agonizing physical slowness in combat and other heated situations.

Floyd Sanders, her boyfriend of late (as in, the past several hours) had the ability to use antiques and various other knickknacks adeptly as effective weapons. The photojournalist nicknamed him Mister Knickknactastic because of this talent. Floyd was also a brilliant man, having been a nuclear physicist and astronaut alternate in his day, and could devise crafty, indispensable plans at a moment's notice. He was a natural leader. He also possessed the ability to stretch—stretch out conversations to the breaking point, and thus either put his enemies to sleep or render them incurably insane.

Susan's cousin, David Bailey, was soon known as the Human Crutch not long after Frank had met him, due to his superhuman ability to serve as a living walking stick to get anyone through a number of undead unscathed. He had no real abilities beyond this, such as setting fire or flying high…though he could light up and get high pretty easily—which was what he was doing right before Frank found him in the North Plaza, what with all those munchies spread around.

Last but most certainly not least was Ryan LaRosa, called the Thingamajig by Frank, as the old man barked orders back on the 19th for everyone to "go get this doodad over here" and "go grab that jobber over there" to form a barricade before the zombies broke in anyway. He was killed that day, but came back in time for La Colmilla's tournament; how that happened exactly is a story for another day.

Altogether these four were deemed by Frank West to be the Fantastic Farts, since their solidarity and resourcefulness against the monster horde was, in Frank's own words, "Fan-tas-tic."

At the moment, however, they were only three: like an invisible woman, Susan disappeared not long after the tourney started. The other members of the group were informed not long after his vanishing act that their opponent, a fellow codger named Gen-Fu, had abducted her in order to use her as a "warm-up" for the upcoming battle. Of course, this drove Floyd, David, and Ryan over the limit, and they were determined to warm this Gen-Fu up, down, sideways, diagonally, and all sorts of other directions when they finally reached him.

With both Floyd atop him and David along his side, Ryan would be going for a Guinness Record regarding number of individuals carried through a population of zombies at one time. His feat would mark one person greater than that of the record previously held by the photographic (though not photogenic) tough guy who carried those such as Floyd and David individually. On top of all that, he also clutched onto a small, round propane tank with his teeth; who knew if they might need an extra weapon.

Ryan direly hoped that Floyd knew what he was talking about as he guided the other two old men through the first few creatures, Floyd freely hacking at a couple with his antique battle axe from the Ned's in Entrance. The old man had a degree in aerodynamic whatever and a flair for old curios, but that didn't make him an expert on zombies. But…it did seem to make sense, what he posited: that if one person attached to you could make you invulnerable to a small group of zombies, then several people so connected might make you exponentially safer.

The Farts would have to find out the hard way, as they picked through an unconscionable infinitude of these things.

The ever-lovin' bulging-eyed Thingamajig heaved heartily as he pushed through the monsters. Sure enough, the three humans amidst the unhuman were making it through, just as Floyd had hypothesized. The ex-astronaut's distant cousin, Sophie Richards, and her father Reed would be so proud. Zombies reached and grabbed, but none hurt the trio well weathered by time.

Fortunately, the iron grilles that would separate a photojournalist and his irresistible _mami_ of an assistant, in an alternate universe, were absent from this cave schematic, having faded out of existence with no explanation like a maintenance tunnel barrier that would only appear during an explosive life-or-death crisis, and would only permit motorcycles inside and no other vehicles of greater magnitude.

The tethered threesome continued to plod on, down a rocky ramp, then around a couple of bends and turns that were so naturally unlikely that they seemed to be the object of some sadistic divine programmer with more time on his hands than work.

At last they reached the far end of the cavern, where they could plainly see their beloved Sue trapped behind a metal partition, along with a wizened old man who might have looked respectable, if not for his goofy mohawk and zebralike sleeves.

Floyd and David breathed sighs of relief as they saw her, while Ryan was so beset with bliss that he dropped both of his passengers from his shoulders and the propane tank from his teeth. To the men's benefit, there was no catastrophic detonation that ensued, as the tank was made to take such impacts as it did now against the cave floor.

"SUE! WE'LL SAVE YOU!" cried her cousin, as he paused to lean against the cavern wall. He couldn't help but whimper again, also in exclamatory form. "HOAH—OHHH!"

Without thinking at all, Ryan ran straight for the grille ahead of him and pulled it at, as if he had superhuman strength. "I'll get you, you wrinkled old zebra jackass! I'll…" He despaired as he strained at the bars before him. Unlike the barriers that existed mid-cavern, these were present in this reality as well as in all others. "Aww, whatta revoltin' impediment this turned out to be," he muttered as he struggled.

"Do not mock this old man…you miserable, useless farts," said the en-zebra-ed individual solemnly. "You will know the wrath of Gen-Fu…though not for long."

He punctuated this with a pair of open-handed heart-level punches to the air, as if to tacitly threaten the entire team with a quick death.

"Ryan!" shouted Floyd from afar, hacking and wheezing as he did his best to catch up to his ally. He pointed to the northwest when he finally did get there. "The lever, up there! We can use it to free Sue!"

Ryan, who was heretofore gazing at said Sue through the bars, followed Floyd's gaze and saw an upright iron rod that did not erase the erect feeling that was in his pants.

"Awright, Floyd, I'll see what I can do!"

Floyd and David steeled themselves for the challenge before them, which was a difficult task—after all, it was all both of them could do to stand up straight. As Ryan worked the lever, the bar going down but something low within him remaining up, the prison that housed Susan Walsh was shunted wide open.

"Oh, Floyd! I knew you'd come for me!" cried Sue as she stood up from a rock formation to run to her love. Thank some almighty deity, she wasn't even scratched or anything; apparently Gen-Fu didn't get in his warm-up after all.

Susan and Floyd ran to one another, their arms wide open. Each got about four paces out, then hunched down to catch his or her breath.

Gen-Fu, meanwhile, was fed up with all these antics. "I may or may not win, but fatigue is the way of the fool," he said. "You people are way too slow for me. Like your precious Susan…young men might prefer their women fast; I like mine slow…but she takes it to another level."

"Why did you kidnap Sue?!" yelled David from afar, who was limping along furiously. "Son of a bitch!"

He then promptly fell over, as expected.

"I needed money for Mei Lin's operation," explained Gen-Fu, referring to his granddaughter. "She was sick before, but now she wants another kind of…procedure."

Floyd stood there as he huffed, scratching his head.

"She said she was happy being my granddaughter…but suggested that she might be even happier being my grandson."

"Oh, she wants _that_ kind of operation," said Sue, realizing.

"Yes, so you see how…urgent the situation is, and why my plan of leveraged buyout of your hard candy company was a bit much, but…very necessary, Ms. Walsh."

"Well," grumbled the Thingamajig as he pounded the ground, joining the other hoary heroes, "ain't no cute little Chinese girls gonna become boys today, Mr. Fu! QUIT SCREWIN' AROUND!"

David chuffed as Ryan uttered his most famous catch phrase. It didn't have the same oomph as "It's clobberin' time," but it least it had the same amount of syllables and stresses.

"Fair enough, old sir," said Gen-Fu, tensing into a fighting stance. "Come, then. Attack me any way you choose."

Ryan first ran over to fetch his trusty propane tank, then barreled toward the ancient master. "I'm gonna teach your zebra ass a thing or two, or I'm not my Aunt Rosa LaRosa's favorite nephew…"

Ryan then went to bash the other fart's head in with the tank, which Gen-Fu effectively blocked with open yet hardy hands. The latter then abruptly grabbed the former and tripped him so that he fell to the ground in a bulky and of course smelly heap.

"You can't be this fast," said Ryan as he pulled himself up to fight again. "Zebras are stupid and slow."

"I am no zebra!" returned his opponent as he stomped the ground, then shoved Ryan away. The portly survivor bounced off a nearby cavern wall, landing not far from his propane tank. Without another maddening word, he hefted the tank above his head and chucked it at Gen-Fu. In turn, the martial arts maven spin-chopped the object back, propelling the propane towards Ryan. The container, unable to take any more abuse, exploded as soon as it met the space between the Thingamajig's prodigious peepers.

"RYAN!" yelled Floyd and Susan simultaneously. They then stopped again to catch their breaths.

"Your fighting style lacks finesse," said Gen-Fu to the now-unconscious Ryan LaRosa. He then looked to the man and woman before him and beckoned. "Come, join your well-aged friend!"

"Staying alive must not have much appeal to you anymore," said the sussed Sanders as he charged with his axe before him. "This won't solve any of Ryan's long-term problems, but…"

He then stopped short, as usual, and placed the axe down to retrieve his respiration…just a step or two short of his target.

Without hesitating, Gen-Fu approached, boxing Floyd's ears thoroughly.

"What a hostile boy!" marveled Susan at the sight.

_Boy?_ thought the martial arts master as he then hip-threw the unfortunate Floyd into the nearest cavern wall.

Before the geezerific Gen-Fu could turn around, the back of his mohawk met the toughened rubber of Susan's sensible soccer ball.

"You dare?" shouted Gen-Fu as he turned to face the comely comer that was Susan Walsh. She said nothing in return, but simply lined up another speckled sphere and let loose with an inimitable kick.

She grimaced through her dentures in dismay, however, as Gen-Fu quickly responded with a head-butt to the ball. The returning projectile flew through Susan's Frederick-Douglass-esque hair, but given her frail frame this was enough to whisk her down to the ground and into unconsciousness along with Floyd and Ryan.

Gen-Fu then looked to where the ball landed, watching it roll through a couple of discarded bags of potato, tortilla, and other sundry chips.

His final foe, the Human Crutch, lay on the ground as well, though only partially unconscious. David Bailey was there physically, but mentally had lived up to his surname as he had bailed to another plane of existence. The sickeningly sweet odor that emanated from him made Gen-Fu think of Susan's hard candies or Mei-Lin's perfume.

The old man rubbed his hands together with much jubilance, expecting that she would soon be able to switch to cologne.

MALLGOERS: 5

EVILDOAERS: 3


	3. Battles 9 through 12

ENCOUNTER NINE: YUU TANAKA, SHINJI KITANO, LARRY CHIANG, AND JOLIE WU VERSUS KOKORO

ENCOUNTER NINE: YUU TANAKA, SHINJI KITANO, LARRY CHIANG, AND JOLIE WU VERSUS KOKORO

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, MEAT PROCESSING AREA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 7:40AM

In a dank, dingy meat processing center entrenched in the bowels of the Park View Maintenance Tunnels, a bulky butcher adjusted meat hulks on hooks with his hands while an almost-as-tubby tourist helped himself to smaller selections en masse. The latter's companion rested on a multicolored children's play cube as he took turns reading a trade magazine from his home country, watching his friend gobble sausages from a rack with contempt and disgust, and watching the woman across the way from him with contemptible lust.

"(Shinji! Cease your sausage sucking this instant!") chided Yuu Tanaka in his native language. "(You will greatly offend the store's proprietor, and that will be trouble for us…look how huge and overbearing he is.)"

"(A few more of these…(munch, munch) and I'll be a match for him…physically and ferociously,)" returned Yuu's friend. "(In any case, speaking of matches, I'll need my energy for the upcoming one with our opponent…not to mention that I'll also need a weapon, given that I kind of forgot to get one from Wonderland on the way over.)" Shinji patted the sausage rack itself as he finished this last sentence. "(This thing'll be that much easier to yield with less wieners on it.)"

"(Resourceful as always, my friend,)" returned Yuu, semi-sarcastically, in Japanese. He then adjusted his gaze from his friend to the lovely lady who was approaching him from the other direction.

"Neither of you speak English, do you," said Jolie Wu as she looked first to Yuu, then Shinji, and became disappointed by their blank stares. She chuffed to herself as Yuu then gave her the most salacious look. She'd heard that he was quite the womanizer in his native Japan, and really didn't want any part of that.

Jolie clutched at her stuffed bear tightly, the bear which, she told all the other survivors, she brought with her wherever she went, for security. It had a lot of sentimental value to her…she had been carrying it around since she was a third of her age and a tenth of her already slight weight. Somewhat on the other end of the scale, as a diametric opposite to the warm and fuzzy bear, was the fire axe that was tucked into her waistband…a new keepsake that she just acquired in the Mall, and which, she hoped, would serve as a second security support, should she survive.

As she finished thinking out all of those alliterative S words, Jolie looked over to the aforementioned massive butcher before her. It gave her some comfort that a fellow Chinese-American was down here with her. If she couldn't communicate and connect with Yuu and Shinji, perhaps she could at least do so with Larry.

And there was another reason that she was glad that Larry was Chinese…something that she would reveal soon enough, she thought sinisterly, as she continued to hug her hallowed honey bear close.

The doors to the butcher's lair burst open, making everyone from the skinny Jolie to the superlatively stocky Larry start. Emerging from the enormous enzombied entrails that were the maintenance tunnels was a winsome woman, cultured and keen in her traditional combat wear. At least it was a woman to Larry and Jolie.

To Yuu and Shinji, Kokoro was not a woman but a goddess of desire, a genie of dreams, a…_geisha._

Both men immediately prostrated themselves upon viewing the lovely lady, Yuu from his cube and Shinji from his sausages.

"(I am Kokoro…it is nice to meet you!)" began the wondrous woman in Japanese. She was pleased to see Yuu and Shinji gleaming with admiration and understanding. Meat involuntarily dropped from Shinji's mouth as he took in the woman's innocent face, her fragile form, her tresses of midnight black, her dress of regal splendor, and her unbelievably impossible bust. He took his paws off the sausage rack, imagining the placement of his hands on another rack that was infinitely more pleasant.

His friend, however was exponentially more transfixed. Shinji was instantly infatuated, but Yuu Tanaka was fiercely fixated. This was the woman for whom he'd been searching all his life. After so many years of debauchery and fornication, Yuu had felt a bit world-weary, and was basically ready to settle down. Kokoro couldn't have alighted at a better time.

And he could swear that she knew his name before they were even introduced…as if it were in the stars that they should be as one. After all, she did just say, "Nice to meet Yuu," did she not?

Jolie and Larry, in the meantime, were not so stymied. They gaped at the newcomer with cynical derision, Jolie in her natty threads and Larry in his spousal-abuse undershirt snickering at the gear the _geisha_ was wearing.

"What's your story, lady, with those clothes?!" chuckled the butcher, pointing at his opponent with his oversized meat cleaver. "Bedtime's not for another…sixteen hours or so!"

Kokoro blinked in disbelief. She couldn't fathom that there was some man out there who would not worship her. The woman was one thing, but this megaton of a man…

She pointed to herself calmly, wishing to clarify her introduction a bit. "(Kokoro,)" she repeated, pointing to herself.

"Kokoro?" said Jolie, "like that crappy Beach Boys song from the 80s? I swear…that band should have just stayed dead, and Brian Wilson should've just stayed crazy."

"(Brian Wilson didn't write 'Kokomo!)'" the _geisha_ shot back. She didn't understand English, but she'd been through this conversation with everyone from Nagoya to Nagano.

"(Forgive these Chinese barbarians, my gifted goddess,)" said Yuu, as he approached her with toy cube in hand. "(Please…)" he said, offering the cube to her,

"(accept my humble tacky cube. It is not much, very modest…but I can shower you with toys as well as tokens of greater materialistic magnitude.)"

Before Kokoro could begin to respond, Yuu was shoved a bit unceremoniously out of the way by his supposed best friend. "(Yuu cannot satisfy you as can I, milady,)" he blubbered, his arms laden with sausages. "(I apologize, but I present naught more than mere lowly links of meat for now…I, however, can make you swoon with sausages of another sort, in time…should you permit me to do so.)"

"(The comely Kokoro does not wish to become involved in the affairs of your sausage, Shinji,)" spat Yuu. "(She wishes for a more refined, more dapper man…and I am indeed that man.)" He again proffered the toy cube to the grandiose _geisha_.

"(O Kokoro of considerable beauty and boso…I mean, bounty; do not let this sake-and-shochu-sucking simpleton fool you with his womanizing wiles. He is a poor man, from a poor family. Just look at the 1980s life jacket he has on, like he's Marty McFly or something, and you will realize.)" Shinji pushed his sausage further towards the woman's face.

"First we're talking Brian Wilson, and now it's Marty McFly," said Larry to Jolie in the background as they sharpened their blades.

Meanwhile, Kokoro was aghast and repulsed. Not really because of the inferiority of the men themselves, or the gifts they bore...but because neither had bothered to bundle their offerings in orange. She _despised_ it when gifts were given to her in anything other than orange wrapping paper.

"(I can't accept these, sorry,)" said the woman as she jumped into the air and _geisha_-slapped the sausage and cube away. Yuu and Shinji bowed and beat their heads at her rejection of both.

"(Forgive us, fair one!)" squeaked Shinji, "(We harbored no intention of offending you!)"

"(I won't let you go easy on me!)" returned Kokoro as she settled into her Baji Quan fighting stance.

Yuu spontaneously combusted at these words, interpreting this as an invitation. How he so wanted to "go on her"; and her not making it easy made him want her all the more.

"(If you were only to become Kokoro Kitano,)" pleaded Shinji, "(I would broaden the horizons of your universe to the utmost limit.)"

"(Kitano, huh!)" scoffed Yuu, as he returned to his feet. "(The only thing that you and he would broaden, my melty majesty, would be your beltlines. Your hearth of happiness lies in embracing your identity as Kokoro Tanaka.)"

"(Kokoro Tanaka, my wide ass,)" Shinji shot back. "(Kitano suits her better. It's the same first letter and everything.)"

"(My name is superior for her, because it would be parallel in terms of the O vowels in the first name, and then the A vowels in the surname! It is predestined by the heavens that she is to become Kokoro Tanaka.)"

"More like 'Kokoro of the Knockers,'" Jolie joked to Larry.

Tired of all this talk, Kokoro finally took a step forward and made as if to embrace Shinji. The latter's chubby countenance beamed as the maneuver began…

…Only to shift into a sneer of agony as Kokoro then grabbed him by the neck and threw him to the floor.

"(Not on your life, lardass,)" muttered Kokoro to the now prone Kitano. "(Not even in your most deluded dreams.)"

It was now Yuu's turn to become engorged with gladness. "(You have made the correct decision, my love,)" he said to the _geisha_, bowing again.

"(I'll show you what I've got!)" said Kokoro, approaching the titillated tourist rapidly. The man's mind swam as she said this, imagining her showing him—Yuu—"all she's got"…opening her combat pajamas and shoving into his face the most glorious pair of…

…feet as she double-jump-kicked him against a stainless steel table, causing him to tumble end over end into a stupor in which maybe his fantasies of her could be fulfilled.

"(Like the water, like the sky!)" cried Kokoro triumphantly in Japanese as she stood among the still forms of Shinji and Yuu.

Several feet away, Larry was like the gruel he consumed in the troughs around his workplace—all cruddy and nasty, yet tough. He was ready to take his opponent down.

But he knew it might be best if he first tried to catch the fly with honey instead than vinegar…or rather, with a radish instead of rashness.

"Yoo hoo!" yelled the burly behemoth. As Kokoro turned to face him, her own features lit up for the first time since she entered the room.

Dangling from the man's hand was her favorite little vittle: the Japanese radish. Scores of these were in stock upstairs at Seon's, and most of the time they didn't sell well, to Americans anyway. But to the Japanese the vegetables, and those of its ilk, were irresistible. This held true from the present to old legends, in which demons in dynamite-ridden hallways were held at bay with simple turnips.

"(Give that unto me…now,)" ordered Kokoro, dashing for the tiny delight.

"Ah, ah, ah, my dear customer," said the butcher, pushing her away with a nudge from the flat of his meat cleaver, "This is America: when ordering, please speak English!"

Then the man's face met the fuzzy haunches of Jolie's honey bear. "Whaaat?" protested Larry. "It's true!"

"Don't be like that, Larr," said Jolie. "You're better than that."

"So I grew up in South Philly; I can't help it!"

"Just because you were raised there, doesn't mean you have to be Joe Vento," replied Jolie.

The conversation between the two was cut short as Kokoro literally came between them. A flurry of slaps and shoves ensued, from Kokoro to Jolie. It was all the latter could do to block the former with her bear.

Kokoro was about to become a kicker and not a slapper when suddenly she was grabbed roughly from behind from Larry, who took her and hung her on a hook by her gaudy costume.

"Looks like you're a bit…top heavy there…a bit of excess freshness in the front," said the man as he eyed her chest. He lifted his meat cleaver. "We may have to engage in a bit of…breast reduction procedures, impromptu, if you will."

Kokoro's huge eyes became even huger as Larry raised the cleaver higher.

Suddenly the arc of the knife was cut short as it crossed with another blade.

"Larry…again," said Jolie, her fire axe blocking the meat cleaver's path, "don't be a moron. Come on, you're better than this."

Jolie and the Joe Vento stared at one another for a second as their weapons held against themselves; then, moments later, Larry sighed out long and low. "Alright, Jolie, I hear you." He gave her an assuring nod, and she relented with her axe as did he with his cleaver.

The Chinese woman then ducked down to her stuffed bear as Larry grabbed a sizeable slab of meat from another hook and knocked out Kokoro with it. Another product of the Tecmo meat market defeated, this time by someone of a literal kind of that market.

"Well, I think we took care of things, Joles," said the butcher as he set his meat cleaver into another slab nearby. "I…"

His sentence was cut short as he looked into the once-black and now-red eyes of his partner's apparently harmless stuffed bear. What he, and everyone else save Jolie herself, didn't know was that she, like Carlito Keyes nurtured her own vengeful agenda toward America.

The latest craze, of which Jolie Wu was fully aware, was that more and more up and coming Americans were learning Chinese, in order to become able to compete with others at the forefront of global trade and commerce. But it wasn't the correct Chinese.

Many men and women in the States, she had read, were learning Mandarin for practical purposes. This was the first and foremost dialect of China.

Like all the Wus that were before her, Jolie learned the tongue of her namesake—Wu, the second most spoken dialect in her home country. Jolie was confident that, although almost ten times more people spoke Mandarin in her homeland, Wu was the one for the world. And so it would be, by her hand.

She designed the language bomb with great care, packing it within her beloved stuffed honey just as the Santa Cabezan siblings had their larva bombs tucked in trucks. The difference with her own creation was that she could adjust things so that she could focus her weapon upon one or all—whatever she wished. She could entrance each person before her to speak Wu individually…or she could do it all at once. Jolie decided to take her time and start with Larry, who had told her before that he only spoke English and Cantonese.

And so, Leery Jolie looked upon Jolly Larry as she fixed her bear's eyes on the man. The butcher just stood there for a moment, uttering nothing, then began speaking just the woman's language, as she had hoped.

"(I'm so…glad you did that just now…my pet,)" said the man in the lady's native tongue. As he took a step toward her, a lewd look formed in his eye.

The other survivor crinkled her brow a second, then gasped as she realized: she also programmed something on the individual language-ray wherein her subject would fall irreversibly in love with her…so she had to be selective with it! Damn. It made sense with Rachel, whom she loved in so many ways—but not with this pusillanimous palace of a person that was plodding her way!

She tried to run, but her fellow combatant sped ahead of her with amazing speed and blocked the flapping double-doors. He looked down upon her diminutive figure with hunger for something other than the meat hanging around his lockers.

"(My love, since we worked together so well as a team…,)" said Larry to Jolie, most suggestively in the lady's language, "(why don't we continue on as part of a family? Why don't we commence right here with the beginnings of a little…Wu-Chiang Clan?)"

MALLGOERS: 6

EVILDOAERS: 3

ENCOUNTER TEN: NATALIE MEYER, KATHY PETERSON, JO SLADE, CHRIS REDFIELD, JILL VALENTINE, AND BRAD VICKERS VERSUS ZACK AND NIKI

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, UNDERGROUND PASSAGEWAY BETWEEN WONDERLAND PLAZA RESTROOMS AND PARADISE PLAZA RESTROOMS,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 8:00AM

"Alpha Team is walking around the underground passageway situated between the restrooms of Wonderland Plaza and Paradise Plaza, where we are searching for the opponent of our survivor teammates, Zack and Niki, who disappeared since the beginning of the DOA/DR tournament."

"Chris, you haven't found them?"

"No, I haven't found them yet."

Chris looked at Brad, exasperated, as he clicked his recorder off. "Aren't we all supposed to be looking? Why does it just have to be me?!"

"Sorry," said Brad, looking down.

Chris Redfield palmed the recorder into which he was speaking—the one he borrowed from the slovenly photojournalist back in the security room—and surveyed his surroundings. Dank greenish stone permeated the entirety of his and his compatriots' environs; it kind of resembled the passageway between the courtyard of the Spencer Estate and the Umbrella Laboratories near the old mansion. The man sniffed, then shuddered. Hopefully there wouldn't be any overgrown arthropods or arachnids down here as there were in those old caverns ten years back.

He was comforted, however, by the company of some of his old mates, even if one was a bit of a moron. Brad Vickers…although rumored to have become one of the undead, then thought to have been slaughtered by the hulking enemy Nemesis, he was in actuality just fine and dandy at present, contending only with his ordinary usual issues of insecurity. Brad walked alongside Chris as they made their way through the tunnel, the former playing with looked like a small model of a helicopter.

"Did you have to bring that little whirly along, Brad?" asked Chris.

"I feel stronger—and safer—just playing with these drones," replied Brad, using a remote to maneuver what was a small, airborne Special Forces security device—before the pilot had tinkered with and reprogammed it. The chicken that was Vickers felt more fortified if his hands were occupied with small sticks, like some of the controls of his helicopter, or the ones controlling the drones now.

_Whatever made him feel a bit stronger,_ Chris thought, remembering that he had taken it upon himself to try and make the man a bit more assertive. He felt a bit sorry for Brad, who was afraid of his own shadow as well as authority figures, the opposite gender, and all unliving members of God's creation. Chris was determined to give Brad more oomph, to have him experience the wilder side of existence, to take away his ideals of innocence and abstinence (well, Chris wouldn't handle that last one personally…he'd find a "lucky" lady for that, even if he'd have to pay her).

Redfield rolled his eyes at the prospect. Then he looked, lovingly, over to the lady of his own life: Jill Valentine. She too was picking through the passageway, her beret cocked atop her head just as it was when they both were STARS and more in their prime. She had a wonderful heart, and personality—and body—though her voice could have used some work. She kind of sounded a bit too moany at times, back then as well as now. Even in her commercials for Jill's Sandwiches, advertising her "Willam-eats" and such, she had a slight whine in her voice. But that didn't dissuade him in the least from loving and desiring her fully.

Chris kept staring a bit longer at the woman, caressing the knife strapped to his shoulder as he did so. Everyone in the Redfield clan wore the knife, from Chris to Claire to nine-month-old little Cody to ninety-year-old Grandma Candace. You just didn't take it off for anything.

Chris lifted the recorder to his lips, clicked it on, and continued:

"Bizarre brawling-then-mauling cases have recently occurred at the Park View Mall. There are outlandish reports of voluptuous females named Hitomi, Kasumi, and Kokoro, being attacked by groups of about 53,594 people after winning or losing their respective matches. The bitches were apparently…eaten.

"The opposing team of Zack and Niki supposedly went down into this passageway…but they haven't appeared."

"Look, Chris!" groaned Jill at the sight of something flashy in the distance.

As Chris ran through the passageway, he called back for the three survivor wildebeests to follow suit. The mannish goliath that was Natalie pounded forth first, a garbage can under her arm. Then the cyclopean terror of Kathy poured in next, a bandage over one eye like a mummy among pirates, as well as a bench in her hands, ready to conduct bloody business. Last and least in terms of slenderness was Jo, the powerhouse of a policewoman who brandished a nightstick most menacingly yet suggestively. For an instant the thought crossed Chris that perhaps Jo might be right for Brad's deflowering.

_No, I wouldn't visit that upon any man,_ he thought again, cringing as he took in Jo's exponentially Cabbage-Patched face.

_On second thought, considering what Brad did to all of us STARS at the mansion…maybe I would set them up,_ he reflected. _Even tie Brad to the bed._

A set of glistening, silver teeth shone out at the group from a darkened part of the passageway, but no one noticed.

When the sextet reached the small alcove noted by Jill, they all looked in disgust at the scene before them. Gaudy shades, walkman ears, a shabby vest, a green mohawk (Chris just knew that was fake), all adorned the natural floor. Some silver duds accompanied the aforementioned trinkets as well—must have been those of the wacky man's girlfriend. Only Chris could find his voice as he spoke once again into his device.

"It was Zack and Niki's silly costumes. Their owners weren't in them, but strangely most of their gimmicks were still there. However, we soon discovered why."

"We haven't really discovered anything yet," interrupted Brad.

"Yeah, I was, was trying to be melodramatic," Chris shot back, grunting his frustration. He looked over at Jill, who was more grin than groan fortunately, and wished for a moment or twenty that her costume had joined those of his opponents on the ground.

"You know, I've heard about these two," offered Kathy as she put down her bench a second and adjusted her bandage. "A junior swashbuckler and his golden flying monkey or something…might be pretty formidable. Good thing I've got my 'pirate' thing on a bit, myself." She patted the covering over her eye for a second, indicating it as if it were a patch.

"A-hur, hur hur…" cut in Natalie. "What's…hur…happened?" Though she was a titan in size—a broad in the broadest sense of the word—Natalie Meyer was not ready for this brand of brigands at the Park View Mall.

"Kathy's confused; she means 'Zack and Wiki,' not Zack and Niki, Natalie," said Jill. "Don't worry."

The bereted babe then added over her shoulder, however, "I have a sinking feeling, though, that one of our opponents may be showing us a monkey anyway…I wouldn't put exhibitionist tendencies past him."

"A-HUR HUR HUR!" cried Natalie all the louder, now nearly hysterical.

Again the pair of silver jaws gleamed from nowhere, unnoticed.

Jill then looked over at the policewoman who was with them. Unlike Kathy and Natalie, this other survivor was strangely quiet the whole time. The officer appeared to be utilizing her best law enforcement skills as she probed and pilfered through the scene.

Jill looked away just as the other woman cried out.

"What have we here?" said Jo as she bent down to investigate what appeared to be a small yet full receptacle of sexual protection.

The officer pulled on the seeming condom, but struggled. She tugged harder, and out of the darkened corner in which she found the object, she pulled with it a full grown man's head…still warm and attached to the neck…and attached to the body…

"AGH!" Jo cried out in surprise, dropping what she thought was a regular rubber.

Before she or anybody could react any further, however, the silver choppers from beyond came to the fore—along with their owner, a beautiful yet insane girl with braids the color of her bicuspids. Wearing very little, yet enough to garner a Mature and not an Adults-Only rating, she rushed up to the officer and began to submerge her teeth into the policewoman's posterior.

"OHHHHH I'm gonna die! It hurts! AWWWWW!"

Chomp chomp chomp

Chris spun around, the height of his hair greater than the length of his face.

The victimized survivor continued to scream, her shades slipping from above her pudgy cheeks, as the nutty, near-naked Niki worked her way through her.

Slurp slurp slurp kssshew

_"JO SLADE!"_

Jill's cry for the downed police officer sounded genuinely impassioned, even though the STARSwoman only knew the officer for like thirty-five minutes.

Jill and Chris, the originals of survivor horror that they were, then whipped out pistols and started firing at the beautiful abomination that had just lunched on their corpulent compadre—to no avail. All the survivors scattered as Niki finished and started after the remaining five.

Just as Chris thought to look for Brad, he saw the drone lifting high in the air, with its operator quickly walking away and making little whimpering sounds.

"NO! DON'T GO!" hollered Chris as he watched the chickenheart flee, the rotors of the miniature helicopter flying off into the black. He and the other four intact survivors just stood there as this happened, and actually so did Niki, paying attention only to the small vehicle as it puttered away.

Chris then focused on his immediate environment as he heard the DOA babe's chittering chops again.

The former STARS ran one way, while the pair of hoofing heifers who were Natalie and Kathy ran the other. Chris saw salvation in the form of a port-a-john as he sprinted further into the void, with his dear dame dashing closely behind.

"Jill, run for that outhouse!"

"Huff, huff, huff," gasped Jill in assent, as the pair raced for the bathroom set up between bathrooms. One never knew when he or she would hear the call of nature, after all.

_They went into the outhouse…_

_…Where they thought it was safe._

_Yet—_

"Here's the man you've all been waiting for…me…ee…ee…eesh!" Zack said at first triumphantly—then sheepishly—as he spun around to face the two women who were left behind. He shivered in his high-tech, condom-resembling bodysuit as he gawked at Kathy and Natalie. "Man, I should just go back to catchin' some Z's, like I was a second ago! I thought I would come across some hot mall chicks in doin' this tournament…and I get slammed with this?!"

Kathy was fed up. First there was all levels of rejection by her husband Alan, with all his attention towards his secretary and her…assets, then there was the vibrator mishap with her eye—even _that_ rejected her, in a way. Now this.

"You're just gonna get slammed…with this!" the woman yelled as she charged forward with her bench.

"Wh…" Zack didn't even have time to blab off, as he normally did, as Kathy's cord of wood hit home right in the kisser. The lanky luchador flopped to the floor, then jumped right back to his feet.

"That's it…Zack is ready to bring the noise," he said.

Not hesitating another second, the fighter flew to the middle-ager and delivered a couple of elastic-looking spin kicks, then a pair of driving double knees. Kathy's bench shattered with the blows as the woman was whacked to the ground.

"You might have the noise…but I've got the vibe, honey," muttered Zack's opponent as she whipped out the sexual tool that claimed half her sight. Despite her loss, Kathy still couldn't get enough of the thing. After all, you had to get back on your horse, anyway.

"Kick it up a notch!" cried Zack nondescriptly as he prepared to deliver a couple of slappy sweep kicks to Kathy's generous midsection.

"If you say so!" yelled the portly yet proud Peterson as she rose up abruptly and shoved her small mechanism into Zack's mouth. The weird warrior felt the sting (and smell) of infinite stimulations as he vibrated along with the gadget crammed into his maw.

Instinctively, however, Zack lashed out with a bicycle kick that sent Kathy over his head and out of commission. He shook his head as he pulled the strange object out of his mouth. What was it, some sort of electric toothbrush? It had been a while since he had given his pearlies a decent cleaning…

"UGH! PTU! PTU!" he yelled as he spat out as much as he could in realization.

Zack wiped his mouth as much as he could and looked around as he watched his girlfriend go at Natalie. _Poor Niki_, he thought. He should have never taken her along for that Egyptian expedition. They snatched all that treasure, and he made off good and unscathed…but Niki wasn't so lucky, having sustained an arm bite from a rabid skeleton on the way out. Now she was all _28-Milennia-Later_ with her own form of incurable rabidity…if only there were a way to fix it. Somehow, though, she still recognized him and let him sleep and do his own thing. A kind of repayment for his still caring for her…in a way, anyway.

Said Niki was now grabbing at Natalie, who was doing the best she could to fend off the berserk booty with a garbage can. The wild one snapped at the weighty other with vicious jaws, now at the face, now at Natalie's neck…none finding purchase, thank goodness, but grievously, grievously close. At last Niki managed to wrest the trash from her enemy and strike her to the ground with the bin. Finding no further use for the can once Natalie was downed, Niki chucked it at the nearest wall, its contents exploding all over the poor Meyer.

"Congratulations, to me!" Zack shrieked as he looked first at the prone form of Kathy lying a bit away, then that of Natalie.

"I-I mean, to 'we'!" he corrected as he saw his girlfriend glaring at him through glazed, crazed eyes. Victory was just about theirs; it appeared that all Zack or Niki would have to do now was hit up Natalie a couple more times and they would have the match in hand.

"Sometimes a man has to do what he has to do…" the fighter said haughtily as he approached Natalie, motioning for Niki to move away a second. He prepared an elbow to drop hard into the gullet of the miserable, moaning woman on the ground.

Just as he began his assault, however, Natalie rolled away—and grabbed and threw the hunting knife that came out of the garbage can along with all the refuse.

Zack ducked at the last possible millisecond, but that didn't stop the phallic extension atop his head from being severed. "_AGAIN?!_" he cried out as he grabbed for the top of his metallically-covered scalp, thinking of the time that skeleton pharaoh did the same thing in the treasure tomb. "That's it, you're gonna get it now, nasty-face Natalie…Say alo to my leetle friend!" Zack chuckled to himself a second as he rared to drop his elbow once more, recalling how he said that trite _Scarface_ line to Niki as they raised Zack Island from its underwater resting place.

SHHHHHH—BOOOOOM!

Zack turned his lolling head around as he saw Niki get downed by an onrushing grenade blast. He whipped around the other way to see two STARS standing just outside of their outhouse refuge.

"Good round, Jill!" said Chris encouragingly as Jill reloaded her grenade launcher. In turn, the man lifted his own rocket launcher and aimed at Zack.

"You can't! _I'm_ the one with the long bazooka! Not you!" cried the DOAer as he readied to strike Natalie down anyway.

SHHHHHH—BANNNNNG!

Chris was a bit more out of practice than Jill at shooting, and his rocket went wild a bit. But it still had its effect as it struck the wall behind Zack and rocked him off his feet, far away from Natalie's lying form. When he came to a second later, he reached around, searching for the sunglasses that came off his eyes in the blast.

"Not gonna be done in…by freaks like you…"

Zack couldn't even begin to get up and run away as the semi-consumed form of Jo overtook him. Floods of flesh flew from the cop's face as she took out her bad stick, but she didn't care; she was too fixated on punishing someone, anyone—even if it wasn't a little lady as she had hoped.

"Now say hello to _my_ little friend," quipped Jo, also citing the trite _Scarface_ line as she had in Lovely Fashion House, as she prepared to do Zack rather proud with the nightstick. First it was the one odious implement in the oral orifice; now it was another in the anal crevice. Zack was not having the pleasurable vacation in Colorado that he was used to on his kooky island.

As Chris walked over to help Natalie, the Kathy, to their feet once more, Jill gazed at the abuse-based spectacle that was Jo-on-Zack. She wasn't so much disgusted as gratified, especially for what she and Chris had accomplished. This was even better, in a way, than making out with her love in the outhouse, and watching him as he painted a vibrant masterpiece there: them together in a wide meadow, amidst a million rose-colored love letters. Chris had called it _In the Red Field of Valentines_, and made it right on the spot while they were in the Johnny-On-The-Spot.

That, of course, was right before they found the launchers in the back of the outhouse.

"Chris! Chris!" Jill shouted, running up to her love and pressing her lips to his as he turned around. "We did it! We did it! Don't you see! We defeated another giant! This time: the giant prophylactic."

Chris nodded in slow acknowledgment as he noticed this. Together, Chris and Jill had destroyed many giant things as they fought in Raccoon City: a giant snake, a giant plant, many giant spiders (including a really gigantic one, in the underground passages, actually)…and now a giant lubber. This was most certainly an upgrade.

Of course, Jill had a smidgen more experience in the giant-felling department, as when she was escaping Raccoon she faced down a giant worm as well. In retrospect, Jill had to admit that the thing was horrific…yet a bit arousing. In fact, its tall, long form was very suggestive, and was the only real competitor for her affections. Indeed, there was no chemistry between her and Carlos; it was just Chris versus the giant worm thing. In the months to come, Chris would see Jill looking into his eyes, between the sheets, and crying "Giant Worm Thing!" Naturally, Chris would assume he knew what she was referring to—but he would be mistaken.

(This was edited out)

But now Chris embraced his love wholeheartedly and kissed her most fondly. He then looked to the abuse by Jo that Jill was witnessing a second ago. He wouldn't know it now, but in two years—in 2008—Chris Redfield would encounter individuals of African descent who were slightly more intimidating and imposing than Zack in his condom suit.

MALLGOERS: 7

EVILDOAERS: 3

ENCOUNTER ELEVEN: NATHAN CRABBE, BURT THOMPSON, AARON SWOOP, AND MARK QUEMADA VERSUS HAYATE

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, CARLITO'S HIDEOUT,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 8:20AM

Nathan Crabbe surveyed his claustrophobic surroundings—the narrow iron-railinged aisles, the crushingly low ceilings, and the cramped alcove in which everyone was to engage—and felt his teeth begin to grind. He wasn't in the mood for this crap. All he wanted was to see that new movie at Colby's with the cool ass assassins gallivanting around. The ones with shades and suits and guns—not gumballs, as he himself had as an only weapon. Nathan set aside the unwieldy red machine that he was holding and stretched his meaty arms.

"You got enough to share with the rest of us, Nate?" cracked Aaron Swoop from not far away—basically, like, a foot away in the confined area. He was arching his annoying head towards the gumball machine leaning against the motors of the Keyes madpeople. Aaron then started complaining for absolutely no reason, placing his acne-ridden face into his sweaty palm. "Ohh ohh oh! Ohh ohh oh!"

"Shut up, y'little fudge…" started the weary middle-ager, and then he stopped. Nathan knew full well, as did the rest of them there, of the new policy set down in the tournament. As sadistic as she seemed, La Colmilla was none too happy with the fact that Heather Tompkins beat down her other three teammates in the third round—the tourney official wanted the fight to be strictly between the mall stragglers and her chosen warriors. As such, she decreed, any infighting—or even cussing or verbally derogating of one another before or during the match—would result in an automatic disqualification for the survivor team.

This went especially for Nathan Crabbe, as the misanthrope was known to thrash the innards out of anyone who came within a five foot radius of his person. As he waited for his turn at the tournament, he gave the fist kiss to Ray, Michelle, and Cheryl alike—it was unbelievable. Within, it was really his was of expressing his affection for others; inside he really lusted after the women he walloped…and, come to think of it, Ray as well. That adorable doll face…

Anyway, Nathan now rolled his eyes at the prospect that he was not able to put in his two cents—or two fists—regarding the little jerkoff that was Aaron. (Aaron's existence was not a matter of lust with Nathan, or really with anyone). He looked to the cowardly cad, then to the other two "men" with them—Burt Thompson and Mark Quemada—as the latter were play-fighting with their baseball bats.

"Touche, Mr. Thompson!" cried Mark lightheartedly as he slowly swung his equipment towards the other.

"En garde, Marky!" replied Burt as he did the same. The two traded smacks on bats for a couple of minutes to kill the time till their opponent arrived. This was much to Nathan's chagrin, being the crummy curmudgeon that he was—and also to the mass dismay of Aaron Swoop, who wanted Burt in so many ways and felt so…replaced.

Nathan then looked on to the camp stove that Mark brought along from Sports High, and sighed. As if they really had time to cook the hot dogs that the middle-ager had brought along and for which he was once famous.

Aaron also looked around, leaning forward with his head in a turtlelike fashion. He saw the weights that he and Burt brought over from Flexin' in Al Fresca. How nice it might have been if, instead of a warmup with Mark, Burt could have engaged in a workout with him. Aaron with the dumbbell, his close friend with the barbell—they could spot each other all day…

"Your reign of slugger terror will terminate this instant!" carped Mark as he swung upward with his bat. Burt teasingly dodged as his "enemy"'s bat followed through, its tip pointing to the ceiling.

Mark looked to the end of his bat as he did this, then gasped as he gazed at more than his own wood in his line of sight.

The crimson ninja, to which the boy's bat was just pointing, released his grip from the top of the alcove and slammed down in front of everyone.

"I have been witnessing your juvenile antics for the past several moments," began the haughty Hayate, "and I have decided to put them all to an end. The Mugen Tenshin would never stand for such hullabaloo, and neither should I, as I stand here today."

"And just who are you?" piped up Nathan, snarkily, his burly arms crossed on his chest, just below his surly face. He reached over for his weapon, the gumballs roiling within as if tensed for the violence that was about to ensue.

"I am Hayate, also known as Ein of Germany. I am here as your opponent in this battle today." The assassin turned to Burt and Mark. "And as your opponent, I particularly _oppose_ this...derision of dueling that you have established here, with your wooden weapons. If I could, I would demonstrate how to brandish a real weapon—one made from steel and not trees." Hayate, also known as Ein, placed a hand on the hilt of his sheathe sword, which rested on his back. "Aye, indeed the Mugen Tenshin elders have forced this upon us, as we were once a peaceful clan taken to tilling up soil and not taking up swords…the atrocities committed by DOATEC upon my constitution as well as that of my fellow village constituents…"

_Man, why couldn't we fight the people from _Virtua Fighter_ instead?_ thought Mark

as Hayate droned on and on. _They're so generic…yet they just shut up and fight. I'd love to fight…mmm…that Chinese chick Pai._ Indeed, as Mark made his way to Carlito's Hideout, he caught sight of a pie at Colombian Roastmasters, but "pie" was no longer a word in his vocabulary, as it was eternally supplanted by "pai." Such was his obsession with the uninspired Sega warrior princess.

Hayate continued to go on and on as Nathan consumed some of his machine's projectiles, Burt stroked his bat eagerly in anxiety for the fight, and Aaron just craned his head out and looked around like the biggest gimp.

_Or maybe the Japanese girl, like, "Aoi" or whatever her name is, _Mark continued in his mind._ How do you pronounce that, "A-yoy?" "Ahoy?" "Or just A-O-I?" Like, AOL, or that sucky band AFI. God they suck._

_With my luck, I'd probably get Jeffry—the guy with the rooster hair who's too cool to have two E's in his name. Just like the Pixies sang about Jefrey with one F, here's Jeffry with one E. Friggin' Corn Flakes Chicken retard._

"Hai!"

Mark's reverie of infatuation tinged with misery abruptly ended as Hayate approached, unannounced, and delivered a crouching chop to his unprotected thigh. The boy buckled as he clutched onto his bat for dear life.

The ninja could no longer continue with the child-man, however, as Burt was closing in with his own bat in hand. The survivor swung downward at Hayate with all his might, and missed the mark as his target whisked away. Hayate then dashed back in with a spinning uppercut, then a lunge punch that completely knocked the wind out of his adversary.

Before the _shinobi_ could face his former enemy, however, he felt a burning sensation on his behind. He didn't have to turn around to know that his ass was being aced by Mark's camp stove. The bat boy was duly shoving the outing appliance up the other's anus grimly, knowing that he had to do what he had to do.

Gritting his teeth behind his mask, Hayate backflipped out of the situation, causing the stove to land on the top of Mark's head, grill first. The boy with the last name that meant "burnt" in Spanish lived up to said surname as his scalp suffered a bit of scorch, and he sank into unconsciousness.

As Hayate was putting out his ass on the carpet across the alcove (yes, the one where photojournalists steeped in poverty rested their superhuman bones), he looked across to his enemies, particularly to Burt with barbell in hand.

"I'm gonna win a fight, for once!" he yelled as he lifted the weight above his head somehow, ready to dash the ninja's brains in.

Before Burt could even blink, Hayate was back on his feet and running towards his enemy. With just a couple steps' momentum he slid towards Burt and kicked him low, taking the survivor off balance and causing the weights to topple from his hands. Once barbell met Burt-brow, there were two down and as many remaining for Hayate to take down.

The assassin, who was known to a select few in Germany as "Ein," then sprinted towards Aaron, known to everyone everywhere as "Whine." The latter attempted to defend himself by striking out wildly with his dumbbell, but Hayate anticipated such a brash move and ducked out of the way at the last second. "I must press on," he said as he actually began to climb up Aaron—titillating his target a bit in the process—his feet trampling Aaron's thighs as he then delivered two quick spin kicks. The survivor's already-deformed face became utterly unrecognizable as he passed out from the punishment.

skitter skitter skitter

Hayate braced himself as he heard and felt a legion of gumballs rolling his way. The _shinobi_ was used to small assaults along the ground, as he had been beset trillions of times by caltrops and _igadama_—both small, spiky things thrown to the floor to slow or stop the enemy. He jumped up and clung to the ceiling as the tiny spheres rolled by, then hopped back down again to face his final nemesis.

"What is it that you want from us?!" hollered Nathan as he ran forward with the confection-dispensing-mechanism, primed to knock Hayate in the noggin. The intended mark easily sidestepped and sweep-kicked his adversary, causing man to smash and machine to shatter against the ground.

Hayate crossed his arms just as had Nathan a couple of moments ago. "The annihilation of CRABTEC, that is what…"

"No…" Nathan cut him off. There was no way the ninja could have known.

"…my brethren and I had hoped for," finished the Tecmo enemy. It wasn't possible; to all in Willamette and beyond, the nonprofit that Nathan started was simply known as CRAB: Colorado Raunchy Ailments Bulwark. It was a bit of a sketchy acronym, but it was supposed to represent what the organization stood for: providing prevention measures and cures for heretofore uncurable sexually transmitted diseases.

Unbeknownst to all (except apparently to an obscure clan of assassins on the other side of the planet), the supposed philanthropist really harbored intentions of _spreading_ such diseases—especially scabies and things of that sort—across the globe in addition to all over Nathan's nation. What was supposedly the benign-intentioned CRAB was in actuality CRABTEC: Crabs Rampant Across Borders To Exhilarate Crabbe. How this ninja scum could have possibly known of Nathan's ulterior motives was beyond him.

The sullent survivor bent down to pick up a few gumballs to chuck at Hayate. "I'll show you, you _shinobi_ shi…"

Before Nathan could finish his fecal expletive, Hayate was already upon him, dashing forward to throw the man to the floor. What Hayate didn't realize, however, was that Nathan was kind of decent with his reflexes as well (though not nearly as much as his enemy), and stepped back before Hayate could grab hold of his legs.

This didn't stop the assassin from trying again a second later and grasping Nathan's waist, though. In the following instant, as Nathan squirmed to get away, Hayate shunted downward with both hands, initially hoping to pull the other man forward but instead tugging down his jeans, revealing the rosiest of undergarments.

"The path of evil leads to the under…wear," realized Hayate aloud as he watched the color of Nathan's cheeks match that of his undies.

Just as Nathan raised one of his infamous fists to strike at his opponent, said opponent went ahead and lowered the undershorts as well, as a distraction.

The survivor looked down to find himself totally exposed…in more ways than one. Fully open below the waist, he couldn't react in time as Hayate delivered a double jump kick, then another kick in the same frame that slammed Nathan's face down against a nearby railing and into defeat.

"A single flash of lightning!" spat Hayate victoriously as he struck an unremarkable ninja pose. He then looked back to the semi-naked Nathan and grunted. "And maybe a flash of something—or some_one_—else also."

MALLGOERS: 7

EVILDOAERS: 4

ENCOUNTER TWELVE: ROGER HALL, JACK HALL, THOMAS HALL, AND DANA SIMMS VERSUS HELENA

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, ENTRANCE PLAZA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 8:40AM

The middle of what was supposed to be the camouflage-clothed mannequin's mouth was directly in the sights of Thomas Hall's scope. His right index finger rested on the trigger, ready to pull back in another second.

Two headless figures and his target between them. It wasn't such a hard shot to take, especially from his vantage on the second floor near the In The Closet. Still, the presence of the devouring droves down there sort of made for a distraction.

As did the existence of that demure dame, Dana Simms, who was roaming around not too far from his family.

As did those within his family as well…

He had to do his best to block it all out. Do his father and his bastard brother proud.

He squinted a bit more through shaking lenses before he squeezed.

CLOP "_That's_ the way you take…"

SHH-BA-BANGCRSSSSSH

"_Damn_ it, Jack!" Thomas yelled as he spun around to face his brother, who once again clapped him on the back just as he was ready to fire. "Do you hafta do that _every_ time I try to shoot something?" The younger sibling's resultant shot managed to shatter the store glass outside of Men's Storehouse, but came nowhere near the fatigue-wearing figure in the display.

Jack scratched the back of his hatted head as he stifled a cruel laugh. "I don't know, Thom…I figured maybe you could use some backing from your brother every now and then…probably made you get closer to your mark then you would have done on your own.

"I never do it to you, Jack, you ass!"

"Heh heh heh…that's why I love you so much, bro!" Jack reached over and snatched Thomas's sideways cap a second, then rubbed his brother's bald scalp. "Mistress Clean! Mr. Queen! Gay Gent 47!" Jack had so many names for mocking his sibling's lack of locks. "You little hairless whore, you!"

"Jack!"

One of these days, he swore, Thomas would next take aim at him.

"Look, look down there, Thoms." The older Hall brother nodded in the direction of the store display beneath and ahead of them. "See that headless red one? The one that I took out, Thoms? The one standing next to the one in the green camos, that's still intact? That has its bald head still on…kind of just like you?"

"Jack, I'll…"

"That's the difference between you and me, the maned man and the bald boy, Thomas! I could take out those mannequins with my cap down over my eyes!"

"I'll 'cap' you, you…"

"BOYS!" shouted the other Hall of the house, the real man among them. Supposedly. "Get your heads on straight, before I blast them off myself!"

"Aww, Dad, we were just goofin' around…" said Jack.

"This is no time for that right now," cut in Roger Hall, adjusting his bifocals so that he could better see whatever emerging target La Colmilla would be sending against him. He was ready and hoped it would be the shot of his life.

"We can't mess around too much…whoever this is that that boss lady is making us fight will probably do what must be done to thwart our chances of survival." He looked first to his older son, then his younger as he spoke, gravely as always. "That's what this is all about, after all. The future belongs to the strong."

Both boys looked down at the tacky mall floor as their father spoke, knowing full well not to interrupt or talk back. They all had guns, but Roger ranged far ahead of them in terms of sniping skill.

"Now keep on the lookout for our opponent! Should be here at any second." Big Dog Rog could hardly contain himself as he finished. He was sick of shooting at the simpering, slithering things beneath them…and the plastic bodies behind the store displays were even worse. At last, another living, breathing thing to fire upon.

Jack stalked off towards the perfume place while Thomas walked leftward, looking for their common enemy. As the young bespectacled boy nudged on past the Knickknackery, he noticed the aforementioned demure dame Dana Simms, rummaging amongst the antiques.

"H-hey," Thomas said, his stuttered word falling upon no live ears as the door to Ned's was presently closed. He wanted so badly to have kind words between himself and this lady, whom he acknowledged, then admired, then adored over the fleeting minutes.

Realizing his ineffectiveness at present, he summoned up as much nerve as he could and entered the emporium.

"Gasp," gasped Dana as she glanced over at Thomas's alighting. She struggled to maintain her composure as she stared at the ground.

"I-I didn't mean so startle you," said the boy as he started towards her, to help her with whatever the heck she was trying to accomplish.

"Well, you s-scared me," she responded, stammering out of fear and dread rather than some inborn disability as was the case with Thomas. "I w-was just looking for a weapon to use against the opponent…"

"I see," said Thomas. He paused for a heavy, neverending minute. "You c-could stay in here while we fight whoever it is…the rules don't say you have to fight…technically you could…"

"No," Dana said abruptly, "I want to do my part. I'd like to help, if I can."

"Well, then, here," Thomas replied, taking another step forward. He held out his rifle for her to take. "Take it; really, I'll be…"

"NO," shot the girl, looking away. "I don't like guns. Thank you, though." She walked over to a rather large vase near the front of Ned's. "This should do fine." With some effort she hefted the huge green ceramic creation."

"Allow me…"

"I _have it_," Dana sniffed caustically. She then watched as the other two Halls began to crowd together. "Your family might need you out there."

"O-oh. Yeah, you're right." Thomas saw Jack and Roger next to one another, priming their guns to take aim at something special…or someone. Dejectedly he left to join them.

"Thomas!" cried Jack sardonically, "you've decided to grace us with your presence! How considerate."

"Shut up, Jacky," spat the other boy. "I didn't miss anything big out here."

"Yeah, well, I would differ with you in that respect." Again Jack nodded for Thomas to look down at a certain sight on the first floor…but this time it was no man, mannequin, or monster.

What appeared to be a breathtaking blonde had just strolled out of Refined Class. "Refined Beauty and Style" could not begin to describe this flaxen fawn that appeared before the Halls's eyes. For Roger in particular, it was worship at first sight. He hadn't expected a woman to appear…and such a vision of perfection at that. _This was a superior segment of gluteus maximus if ever there were one,_ thought the man as he watched, more voyeuristically than sniperistically.

Jack, too, was somewhat transfixed—though not to the degree that his father was, which was a good thing; Roger might've taken his own son out to get at Helena Douglas anyway, the way he was gaping. The older Hall boy was glancing back and forth between the blonde below and the brunette across the way in the Ned's—both out of detestation, really, though, and not desire. He didn't have hormonal lust at the moment, as did Roger and Thomas; only bloodlust. He especially wanted to blow away whatever made his brother happy, and he knew that Thomas had had his eye on Dana Simms for some time. Dana, sister of that Lilly who hung out with those other sluts, was once known as "Dana Deacon" before she married and took her husband's name. As far as Jack was concerned, she'd become Dana Decoy before the day was out—if only to spite Thomas.

And Thomas himself was more or less nonplussed at the sight of Helena. She kind of came off as a girl George Washington, to him, what with her stuffy-looking jacket and pants that appeared to be centuries old. Yeah, she was beautiful, and the boy was a bit impressed—but going from looking at Dana to Helena wasn't like progressing from Rosalind to Juliet. Quite the opposite, actually.

The woman who was watched did not yet notice the trio of man-excuses above her, as she was attempting to make her way through various undead. Dana emerged from the Knickknackery and sobbed as she watched their opponent draw closer, working through the monsters below with flurries of chops and kicks.

"NOW!" blurted Jack as he opened fire, his shots clipping Helena in her heels and shins. Although the Halls talked the talk of shooting humans, their bullets always ended up having the effect of gnats, providing more of an annoyance for their targets than an absolute threat.

The sharp shots sent out by Jack Hall hit home in Helena as she trounced another undead creature, but she really didn't notice. The only sensation she gained was that of what felt like small mosquito bites on her ankles. They stopped her in her tracks for a second, but they certainly didn't keep her from moving forward.

It wasn't until Jack echoed his father's "fish in a barrel," cliché, then stood muffled as said father, infatuated with Helena, wrapped his arms around his son's head to subdue him, that the lovely lady looked up.

"I'll choke the life out of you, Jack!" screamed Roger as Thomas rushed over to help his brother and Dana just lost it.

On the ground floor, the sight of sniper rifles (really "hunting rifles" officially, but still) brought Helena back, for the 656646095609th time in her life.

She was on the opera stage, doing her opera thing. Waving her arms all about, bringing her hands to her prodigious sternum. Being there beside her mother, who was the main opera chick and who brought her into the business. Helena's mom kind of looked about two years older than Helena.

Suddenly a flash and then Mother Douglas shot out in front of her baby…

BLAM

…and the rosiest of red blood bloomed from Mother's own vast bust. Helena was fraught with fear and despair as she looked above her and saw her…the ivory-haired hitwoman who just murdered her mother.

The scene, encased in clammy gold, evaporated before Helena once more as the gnat bites seemed to form around her shoulders and face now. She swatted at the bullets that entered her form, wishing that the itches could just go away.

The bullets didn't bother her…but the prospect of being shot at, being victimized just as Mother Douglas was, brought her over the edge.

Helena tore through the undead remaining between her and the escalator, then bounded up the electronic staircase. In seconds she was meters away from the Halls and the Simms.

"You'd best pray to your God," she said as she settled into her fighting stance.

This was enough to make all four survivors scatter in all directions. Dana tossed her vase through the Knickknackery window and dove through. The three "males" ducked down and duck-ran away as fast as they could.

Unable to believe such craven activity, Helena stopped a second to take it all in. She then set off after the one in the red hat, who fired upon her, made her out to be like her defenseless, victimized, buxom mother.

She caught up with Jack near the Shootingstar Sporting Goods, and executed a couple of lunge punches, but her target was too low and constantly evaded her grasp. Like a greased pig, the boy kept slipping away from Helena despite her best efforts.

As he huffed along, Jack wished he could live up to the name of the sporting goods store he had just passed, but survival was where it was at, just as his father said.

Unfortunately for him. Helena was a punching star and a kicking star as she ran in front of Jack, heading him off, then did this wind-up punch that kind of looked like an underhanded volleyball serve. As Jack stood up finally, stunned from the blow, Helena then did a triple front kick, then a sweep kick, then a rising back kick. Jack went down quickly as Helena finally settled into a crouching butterfly stance, then executed a spinning sweep kick that drove the boy into the window of Kicks For Her.

Without missing a beat, she then spun to a standing position and looked across to Roger, who was just emerging from The Shoehorn with…was that a handbag on him, rather than a rifle? Indeed, the man had just scoured Ladies Space for the accessory, then looked for something to match it in the shoe store. Finding nothing, he figured he'd have to make do with what he could find…anything to delight this divinity before him.

"Milady," began Roger, as regally as he could, "I come with gifts for the goddess of goodness that is you."

Helena ran to the former rifle bearer, ready to acquaint him with the ground upon which he stood.

"I don't wish to quarrel with you, milady," said Roger as she reached him. "Please accept my offering…I will submit as well, if that is what you want."

"Daddy!" squeaked Thomas as his father finished. This was not the anguished cry of a son who just saw his father get miniature-chainsawed; this was the bellow of a boy who just saw his dad become virtually castrated with pacifism.

And there was no way they were going to give in to this John Hancock chick.

"Well, I don't plan to lose," said Helena, in response to Roger, "but I refuse to accept your submission. I must drive you through the floor, for your resorting to such…cowardly means of combat." She indicated his sniper rifle, which he dropped at his feet moments ago.

"I'm doing this to please, and appease you, milady," said Roger. "You _know_ that."

Just then he saw, over the magnificent Helena's shoulder, Dana approaching stealthily with her vase in tow. "NO!" he cried as he flung his handbag at the woman.

"Hih hih ha ha ha," laugh-cried Dana as she tumbled to the ground, her face walloped with the bag. As the vase crashed around her, she settled onto the floor with the accessory covering her pretty features, her lips literally pursed with defeat.

"You'll wish you never did that, my friend," said Helena.

"You'll wish you'd met me so much sooner, my love…"

Helena started with a foot stomp, which then led to a crouching sweep. Roger barely had time to clutch at his stamped shoe before the second blow brought him to the ground. The woman then picked him up and executed a butterfly-style chop with her arms splayed out, then an overhead chop, then a lunge punch that sent the man sprawling.

She then did a reverse butterfly chop of a sort, following by two more quick lunge punches. As Roger did all he could to right himself, Helena finished by grabbing him and doing a backhanded b# chop, then lunge punched him in the face once more.

By this point the pair was in The Shoehorn, and Roger's head bounded off a cash register, which issued its requisite kaching tone.

"The bells of good fortune ring for you," said Helena as she started back into the mall concourse.

She padded across many storefronts, looking for the last one, the boy who tried to contain his father as he attacked his other son. She crossed Special Gifts and peered inside, finding nothing and no one. A few jewels within caught her attention, and she pored over them, wondering whether to loot the lot and add them to her collection.

As she stood there, wondering which necklace would look best on her, something else flew over her head to rest on her throat.

Helena couldn't believe she had let her guard down so. It was now that a Hall finally had the upper hand, as Thomas brought the stock of his sniper rifle across Helena's alabaster neck. She stumbled out of the store even though the boy was on her back, and she thrashed to and fro to try and shake him. As he rode her (not in _that_ way…at least, not yet), he looked over to the prone form of his crush Dana, and crushed his gun to Helena's air intake all the more. Helena struggled for air as she continued on, nonetheless.

Finally, in front of the Women's Lib, Helena managed to shift her weight to send Thomas crashing through the store display. So liberated, the woman took a second to recover her breath, then ran up to Thomas and executed a graceful spin and an open-handed uppercut, an "upperchop" of sorts. After an accompanying upwards chop that sent Thomas spinning down again, Helena brought the boy to his feet, then wrapped her arm across his throat and pushed him backward once more to the floor.

Helena slapped her hands back and forth as if having just cleaned up a major mess. She readied herself to strike an ending blow when she looked into the boy's four eyes for the first time. There she saw an awkward, gawky geek, struggling to be able to breathe in this day and age, to say nothing of functioning regularly otherwise. It made her think of other dorks she liked before, of Zack who saved her from the burning towers after destroying the DOATEC work in the fourth tournament, of Weatherby, Donovan's assistant, with whom she had had quite a fling not too long ago. She decided that Thomas would become her next victim.

"Could you feel my melody today, Thomas?" she cooed, flirtatiously.

"I-I think I could feel a lot of the things you just hit me with," the boy blubbered as he struggled through the broken glass in the display.

"No," said Helena softly, "I meant…could you feel my melody…could you please feel…this…"

And then she presented to him the part of her that she wanted Thomas to experience.

Many minutes later, Jack, Roger, and Dana came back into consciousness and dusted themselves off. Dana looked into the handbag that was on her face for any possible makeup, as she was frowsier than ever now. Roger checked his pants and could tell his virginity was unfortunately still intact; Thomas and Jack were from the orphanage and Mrs. Hall never did give him the satisfaction anyway.

The same condition could not be said of Thomas himself, though…not anymore, as Jack saw his brother and Helena emerge from the Outta Sight lens place. Helena's hair was disheveled and a small, sly grin played across her face. Thomas had his hands over his eyes in disbelief of the coming-of-age activity he had just experienced. _Dana who,_ he thought to himself.

"Thomas…?" asked Jack as he endeavored to see his sibling's face from afar—and cringed almost in terror as he received his wish.

The boy's glasses, and even his eyes, were replaced with the ghastly perfect oblong peepers that pertained to all those in Tecmoland.

MALLGOERS: 7

EVILDOAERS: 5


	4. Battles 13 through 16

ENCOUNTER THIRTEEN: KINDELL JOHNSON, KENT SWANSON, TAD HAWTHORNE, AND VERLENE WILLIS VERSUS JANN-LEE

ENCOUNTER THIRTEEN: KINDELL JOHNSON, KENT SWANSON, TAD HAWTHORNE, AND VERLENE WILLIS VERSUS JANN-LEE

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, AIRDUCT ROOFTOP,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 9:00AM

It seemed for a second that the survivors would be on the verge of another mutiny, the way that Kindell was barking on and on for things to be done. La Colmilla would be rather unpleased at that, especially out here on the rooftop between the warehouse and the survivor area. It was a place that she preferred to be contained…she had her own personal reasons for it.

"Swanson! Bring those cardboard boxes over this way!" The burly bowtied bruiser was in no mood for screwing around…actually, in no mood for anything, it appeared (as always really). "We don't want our opponent to be gettin' any advantages over us from those containers that he doesn't deserve. And Hawthorne! How many times I have to tell you? Quit trying to break your neck on those roller skates and get over here and help out!"

"It's a skateboard, boss," replied Tad Hawthorne, who was attempting tricks with said skateboard a la his initialsake, Tony Hawk. Specifically, he was leaping up against the ledge leading to the airduct again and again, trying to see whether he could clear it and failing each time. When numerous survivors (including him) could not successfully climb the ledge on foot, however would he expect to do the same on wheels?

Verlene Willis, watching close by, did not think of the man as Tad Hawk so much as "Tad Hawt," the first four letters of his surname being symbolic to her of his Keanu-Reeves-stunt-double good looks. If this whole situation were a film, she figured, his part would certainly be portrayed by Neo, as hers would most likely be played by perhaps Naomi Watts or at least Renee Zellweger.

Ahh…Tad HAWThorne. Hawt Horne. Hawt and horny, yes, just for her…

"HAWTHORNE!"

"All right, all right!" Verlene's head shot sideways as she watched Tad finally give up on the ledge with his board and go to join the other two men.

Of course, focusing on the skateboard kept Tad's attention away from a source of most searing indignation for him—the thought of having to work together with that little spiky-haired moneran who took him prisoner in Paradise made him want to rip the head off of every undead in the vicinity.

"You call that a kickflip, Hawthorne? HA ha ha ha ha ha!" taunted Kent from not far away. Tad said nothing in response, but shot the amateur phototaker eye daggers that would make Damocles duck (again).

Perhaps it might be better for everyone, actually, for Kent to be around Tad, in that case, if the latter could vent out against the zombies in that way.

After she was finished drinking in Tad for a while longer, Verlene looked over at the bright blue Willamette jacket draped over the air conditioning unit by the elevator. It was a gift to her by that sweet maintenance man. That Freddie May, with whom she shared small talk over the years while she shopped at the Park View. She heard that he showed well in the fifth battle, against some Russian enforcer madman. Perhaps he was right for her, and not this fop Tad. She didn't know; her heart was so divided.

Of course, she merely took the coat off momentarily because she was nervous out here about the fight, and being nervous made her hot. _Made me Hawt_, she thought whimsically, _like my Taddy…_

Verlene gripped the hockey stick that was standing alongside her on the chainlink bordering the machinery near the vent. It was the best thing she could find, having scavenged it from the Shootingstar sports place in Entrance…she'd be damned, though, if she knew how to use it effectively. Some of her older relatives owned farms, and they had her over some summers to help harvest. She's used scythes and things of that sort back then, kind of similar in shape to a hockey stick…but that was so long ago.

She watched as Kindell yelped for the other two survivors to do this and that, wisely standing between them at the same time as he knew what went down between the two of them. In a way, it was a good thing that he had elected himself the leader of the small group, in light of the whole Paradise incident. Verlene thought for a second that maybe it might have been better for them if Kent didn't come back from that.

She decided she wanted to help out, though; help prepare for the coming enemy and his martial arts onslaught. She knew of his name—Jann-Lee—and wondered what he would be like, whether he would be threatening, extremely dangerous…

…_extremely Hawt…_

…_God, I'm so starved for intimate interaction, she thought._

Verlene shook off the sensation and walked over to the others. "Kindell, is there anything I can do to help? I'd like to be of some assistance if I may…"

"We're not in need of your _assistance_, madam," Kindell retorted harshly as he made a sort of small fort with the cardboard boxes, soccer balls, buckets, and other items he and Kent and Tad had found on the roof. He was obsessed (the only verb participle that could really apply to him) with keeping all of these goods away from their adversary. "We _men_ can handle the parameters of the job we need to do."

"Well, if you change your mind, I'll be here, okay? I'll be with you the whole time…"

"Whatchoo talking 'bout, Willis?" Kindell shot back. "I said we don't _need_ your help. Now you just stand over there like the pretty thing you are, and look…pretty 'n all, and try not to get in our way…before, during, or after the fight."

The woman could do nothing but sigh, shaking off the arrogant chauvinism and resigning herself back to the chainlink partition.

BRAA-DA-DAA…

All heads turned quickly as they heard a most sultry sound invade their ears. Verlene was relieved to see the others react, as she thought that it was just the music in her mind again, that played whenever she laid eyes on Tad.

DA-BRAA-DA-DA-DAA…

It was the irresistible, unlikely sound of a seductive, soft jazz trumpet lilting over all their ears. Even Kent seemed to calm down as the Willamettans continued to listen in.

To say nothing of Kindell.

DA-BRAA-DA-DA-BRAA-DA-DA-BRAA-DA…DA-DA…

"Man…" said the megalomaniac mall survivor as a humongous smile crept across his face for the first time all day. "Who is that out there? It sounds like Louis Armstrong…maybe Miles Davis or something…"

DA-DA…

The slinky melody finally finished at last, and a man emerged from around the far corner of the rooftop elevator.

It was no Miles Davis, no Satchmo, no…

…Just some beefy, pointy-haired, goofy-looking Bruce Lee knockoff.

"Do not be concerned, my opponents," began Jann-Lee nobly, as he set his trumpet down by the air conditioner on which the Willamette jacket rested, "my fighting skills are much more pleasing than my…serenading abilities, if you will. You all shall very much fall in love, to a far greater extent, with the music my body itself will make."

"The only music what's gonna play, in the next few seconds," replied Kindell, as he ignored the other three survivors completely and stepped up to his enemy shotgun-first, "is that of ol' Dink here, blastin' away at your ass as you try to run away with your horn between your legs."

"Dink?!" peeped Kent, involuntarily.

"Yeah, that's right…Dink," said the uberconfident would-be-mutineer, turning his head slightly to address the boy as he chucked his weapon. "It's sorta my name spelled backwards…part of it, anyway. It's also the name I give to my…"

He paused, realizing that perhaps he was catching Kent's shortcoming of saying too much.

"All right, we don't need to hear about that," said Tad, bringing the situation under control. "Kindell, you might want to back up, to give our opponent some space…"

The other man merely chuckled at this and stood his ground. "He's got all the space he needs. "You about ready to be blown to Kindell Come, by my Dink?"

"I am eternally ready, my enemy," Jann-Lee said suavely. "I ask you in return: are you ready?"

The Dragon-pretender stood totally unfazed by the prospect of a shotgun shoved in his face. Kindell blanched a second at this.

"The look on your face says you are ready," Jann-Lee finished.

Kindell pulled his trigger as, one second sooner, the martial master opposite him dashed down and punched him in the groin. Kindell's other Dink recoiled in agony as Jann-Lee instantly followed up with a quick uppercut that floored the first man.

And the Chinese cornet man was just getting started. He hadn't even commenced with his infinitely irritating battle prattle.

"YAAH! Waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka-waka…WHASSAP!" exclaimed Jann-Lee as he proceeded to punctuate each "waka" with a separate backhand against Kindell's undefended body. The final interjection, (which will not be repeated so as to not agitate the reader overly much), was accompanied by a hard fist that pointed straight upward and wobbled as Kindell's defeated form flew across the rooftop and bounced off the far chainlinks. His shotgun, by the way, joined the ranks of countless tennis balls along the higher rooftops as the weapon spiraled away from the surly survivor.

The opening display by the Tecmo opponent caused Kent and Tad to forget their differences for a millisecond and stare at one another, each searching the other's face for some kind of plan.

"You have some bright idea as to how we're supposed to take care of him, Tads-Nads?" screeched Kent as he looked around anxiously.

Just hearing the little jackass speak, let alone being called "Tads-Nads," caused Tad to remember his differences with Kent. "You just stay here, you little jerkoff," he grunted. "I'd rather go and take _him_ on than spend another second here with you."

Furiously, Tad threw down his skateboard and reached instinctively for Verlene's hockey stick, which she had placed by the ledge moments ago.

"Oh—oh you can have that, Tad, sure, go ahead," blathered Verlene incoherently. "Are you sure that maybe you don't want me to come with you? I mean I'll be there if you need it, I'll be with you the whole time…"

Hawt and Horny just ignored the woman as he snatched the length of wood and started off for the enemy, while Verlene's heart sank into the deepest maintenance tunnel depth possible.

"All right, you nutjob!" Tad hollered as he approached Jann-Lee, who just stood there waiting for the others. "Your joy luck just ran out with my hockey pucks! Take a whiff of this!"

Tad then launched a series of semi-one-timers, all of which Jann-Lee either dodged or deflected with gay-looking twirling spin kicks. Once all of the petite projectiles were fired, Tad charged with the stick itself, aiming to whisk off his adversary's ugly head right then and there. Before he could really even start his arcing attack, however, Jann-Lee darted in and started executing alternating forehand and backhand swing-like punches like there was no tomorrow, today, or yesterday. "Gobble- gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble-gobble—WOCKA!" This last paroxysm by the inimitable Bruce Lee Wannabe was connected to a double jump kick that sent Tad along the same flight path and schedule as Kindell.

In no time it was just down to Kent and Verlene. The latter looked at the former, and thought to assure him that she would be with him the whole time, but then found herself appalled just by Kent's standing there, his breathing—his _being_—and decided against it. She sort of just looked down at the ground, hoping he would go next.

"Never fear, dear lady!" cried Kent, goofily and gallantly at the same time. "I will aid our cause in the ensuing moments by vanquishing our mortal foe! Yes…I will vanquish…for Verlene! Ha-ha…"

"Okay…just…go and do it," Verlene said in return, hoping that Kent would indeed "vanquish for Verlene" and doing her best not to vomit as Verlene.

With as much haught as Tad was Hawt, Kent rolled up to Jann-Lee. "I don't even need my sidearm to take down a faggy maggot like you! I've got moves of my own!" Stupidly Kent patted the handgun alongside of him, in place of taking it out. Jann-Lee stood by, mildly amused.

"Watch, little man! Watch and learn!"

Kent then finally shut his yap and proceeded to perpetrate some kind of unrecognizable karate form…in all seriousness, it resembled something in between a kata, a salsa, and a seizure. He was mercifully done a half a minute later.

Jann-Lee nodded very slowly as Kent mockingly bowed to him. "That was…something I hadn't seen before. Perhaps it's just that advanced."

"Perhaps so, little man," rejoindered Kent. "Now LOOK OUT!"

In the back of his mind, Kent was amazed that he could just finish his sentence as Jann-Lee, the lightning that he was, stepped aside the boy's propelling, awkward fist, then grabbed his head and yanked him forward and downward unceremoniously to the ground. After a short spell of unconsciousness, Kent was up and back on his feet.

"Okay, okay, man," said the boy, "That was just a warm-up. This time it's…"

Unfortunately, Kent's sentence was not finished "this time," as Jann-Lee, a bit impatient with these fools by now, kicked the back of Kent's knee, then hook punched him and socked him in the abdomen, ending the chain with a "AWOOOH!" that would put Wacko Jacko to shame.

Verlene became really uptight by this point; soon, she realized, it would be her turn. She could submit, for certain; but something within her made her want to fight. After hearing about what happened with Freddie, she wanted to match him—earn his jacket, not just receive it.

She walked up slowly behind Jann-Lee, who was busy atop Kent's prone form, whooping away annoyingly and rearranging the boy's neck vertebrae with his feet. She had the hockey stick in hand, the one that Heedless Tad—no longer Hawt Tad, to her—had taken.

She was all ready to strike out against Jann-Lee when suddenly, abruptly, he backed up without turning and drove into her with both elbows. Verlene's body flopped to the cement and rolled away.

Jann-Lee watched as the woman eventually came to a stop by the blue jacket on the air conditioner, by the cardboard box fort. He then turned to face Kent, who was again inexplicably on his feet and running away from him.

"Where are you going, big man?" shouted the martial master. "Come and face me! Come on…make my blood boil! As if you asses haven't done so already!"

"I'll make your blood boil…I'll make your day…PUNK!" Kent bellowed back. He then started up into a run towards Jann-Lee—ready to execute one of his patented long jump kicks that he so stylishly pulled off against hordes of zombies in Paradise—not to save anyone or fight evil of course, but just to look cool (so he thought).

Jann-Lee realized what Kent was winding up to do, and he responded likewise, gearing up to do his own annoying long jump kick. Another exasperating warble found its way up his throat as he launched himself from the ground.

Irresistible, irritating force met irresistible, irritating force as the flying kicks of Kent and Jann-Lee met in midair…neither of them realizing the spontaneous chemical reaction that was result when so much vexation accrued in one area…

(BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM)

Verlene shielded her eyes as the small explosion rocked the rooftop grounds. Eying the handgun that flew out of Kent's clothes actually, as he received his repeated beatings, she began to crawl in its direction, trying to get at as much as she could in case this nightmare was still not over.

Just as she reached the weapon, she noticed a figure emerging from the billowing smoke. Two figures, actually, with one in the arms of the other. Only one of the two escaped oblivion in the blast. Verlene could see that the victor had spiky hair and walked with the utmost cockiness. But that didn't distinguish either of the combatants.

It was Jann-Lee and Kent involved in that explosion, but who could it be, that was emerging on his feet?

For the second time that day, Verlene's heart took a dive as she saw Jann-Lee come out of the combustible calamity and toss Kent's figure to the cement. The man looked at Verlene, then did this poser-devil-symbol-thing that he did with both hands when he was involved in the third Dead or Alive tournament.

The woman collected herself, stood up, and approached her opponent. She held her hands behind her back in an innocent gesture.

"If you don't hurt me…I can help you get out of here," she began.

"Are you saying that you submit? Don't disappoint me," returned Jann-Lee.

"No…I'm just saying, regardless of who wins or loses, I'll help you get out. There are too many of us here in your way. You can't take on all of them."

"What are you talking about?!" said Jann-Lee, incredulously. "We are the ones in control of this place, not you. La Colmilla has already secured every aspect of this shopping mall."

"Still," Verlene said, her hands sweating behind her as they gripped the handgun in them, "you'll need assistance to get through all the…things out there." She nodded over to the outside parking lot, where the moans of the many monsters were very audible. "I'll help you get through them…"

Jann-Lee foolishly looked over to where Verlene was looking, for only a second.

"I'll be with you the WHOLE TIME…!" She pulled up her gun to fire.

Her finger couldn't flex the trigger fast enough as her enemy quickly grabbed her shoulders, forced her backward and her body wide open for an instant, and drove a quick kick that was supposed to hit her inner thigh.

To Jann-Lee's dismay, however, the blow did not strike at the Verlene's left leg as he had hoped, but rather found its home between her left and her right…directly in the babymaker.

"AwwAwwAww…" carped Verlene as she felt what might have been her fornicative future with Freddie May come to an anticlimactic close.

Jann-Lee, being a germ of a gentleman for a second, stepped back and left Verlene to her pain. He didn't want this to be over yet; three out of the four—but not all four—were unconscious, and he wouldn't be finished until they were all out. He skipped around in place, as he always did as a substitute for a fighting stance, while waiting for the other fighter to make a move.

He watched curiously as Verlene dragged herself gradually to the cardboard boxes, but did not fret a bit. Nothing this woman could produce could keep him from defeating her.

Nothing she could produce, that is…

…except for produce.

"Hey, Jann…" Verlene began, a bit of the devil in her voice as she reached for a small bag within a box, "you get your fix today?"

"What are you saying, woman?" shouted Jann-Lee, impatiently.

"I mean…you have your vittles? Your eats? Your…vegetables?"

She held out the yellow packet of frozen vegetables defiantly before her, more defiantly than any type of Dink that Kindell could brandish.

"Uhhhhh," Jann-Lee gasped as he saw the food, and thought back to his upbringing, just as Verlene knew he would. "Give that...here, woman," he uttered throatily as he walked hypnotically towards her.

Fortunately for Verlene, she had spent the hours before her battle Googling and Youtubing Jann-Lee…watching some of his moves…watching his ending from the fourth Dead or Alive tournament. She knew all about the seedy gym, and the wistful trumpeting…and the traumatic childhood incidents that plagued the boy who grew up to impersonate Bruce Lee.

She used her nails to dig open the bag as Jann-Lee came closer, then—just as the Chinese mob boss had done with the circular loaf of bread back in the day—she held it out before her, in an upright position. The warrior salivated more and more with each step as he neared.

Then, just as Jann-Lee was in grabbing distance, the survivor overturned the bag abruptly, its contents spilling to the ground in almost slow motion. The martial master stood in shock as Verlene's veggies spread all across the concrete. His intestinal lust overcoming him, Jann-Lee dove to the ground to retrieve each and every ounce of the edible alimentation.

CRACK

His mouth never reached the abandoned food, however, as his cranium met with the trucks of Tad's skateboard. With the seeming horsepower of a VW, Verlene Willis struck Jann-Lee with the trendy transport again and again.

"DON'T WORRY, JANN! I'LL BE WITH YOU THE WHOLE TIME!" the woman cried manically as she beat on the man multiple times. "DON'T WORRY, TAD! DON'T WORRY, KINDELL! DON'T WORRY, DANA! I'LL BE WITH YOU THE WHOLE…"

Then Jann-Lee, bloodied and bruised, caught the skateboard at long last. With a hearty heave he threw it aside, grabbed Verlene again, and executed several heel punches to the face, ending with a kick to the side of her head. She ended up flying a few feet away, not far from the elevator door.

Thoroughly miffed, Jann-Lee started pacing around, gathering up his resolve to finish the fight with one great jump onto the woman that would land him on her neck, breaking it, he hoped.

He was surprised, though, to hear Verlene's voice one last time before he rared up.

"Come on, Jann…that's it…"

Jann-Lee was certain that he would take this lady's head off once he landed.

"You'll always be Jann…you'll never be Bruce…always Jann." Then Verlene taunted him, crying out mockingly, "Jun-Fan, Jun-Fan, Jun-Fan!," invoking the real name of Bruce Lee in a Jan Brady "Marcia Marcia Marcia"-like fashion. Jann was nothing more than "Jan" from The Brady Bunch to Verlene…always hating someone superior…always jealous.

Just as Jann-Lee broke into his run towards Verlene, she grabbed his trumpet from aside the air conditioner.

Just as Jann-Lee leapt into the air, Verlene placed the instrument alongside her battered, lying form.

And just as Jann-Lee shunted down for a landing, Verlene sat up and raised the trumpet before her, its mouthpiece to the sky.

SHHHHHUMP

WOOOOOOAAAAAARGH

The fighter sounded more like Janet Leigh from the shower scene in Psycho, rather than Jann-Lee, as his earthbound form became impaled on his own horn. The part upon which his lips generally rested had met his rectum, and followed through, all the way up the anal tract. His eyes bulged as the bugle pushed its way up, and he remained immobile for several seconds atop Verlene, her writhing form unable to get out from under him for several seconds.

Finally the vanquished Jann-Lee—vanquished by Verlene, that is—plopped off of the woman and settled to her side, in more than extreme anguish.

Thinking absolutely nothing of it, Verlene picked herself up, then picked up a garbage bag from around the far corner of the elevator. In a flash she leaped into the air and jump-spin-kicked it, the refuse within seeping to the ground in a steady stream.

"#ing douche bags," she said, referring to all four of the men on the rooftop, as she grabbed her beloved Freddie's jacket, whisked it on, and opened the elevator to throw down with a mass of very unlucky zombies.

MALLGOERS: 8

EVILDOAERS: 5

ENCOUNTER FOURTEEN: PAUL CARSON, GIL JIMENEZ, LEAH STEIN, AND BRAD GARRISON VERSUS BRAD WONG

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, FOOD COURT, SEPTEMBER 22ND, 9:20AM

The tacky, gaudy Willamette Park View Food Court seemed solemnly silent as Paul Carson pushed cautiously through the many-doored entrance from Leisure Park. His skin bristled with a clammy clamor as he proceeded across the first few tiles. It had taken him hours to work up the nerve to make it over here—after all he had been through, Paul "Casual Gals Arson" Carson was not too stoked about another confrontation where he could end up being so burned. This was the reason why he was the last combatant to arrive. All the others must have gotten there already.

And yet, things appeared as if he were the first one on the scene. Not a soul was in sight, almost as if he had the place to himself. Ah, if only one of the hardware stores, with so much propane, wood, and other flammable items, could be so easily accessible…

But Paul sort of didn't like it this way at the Food Court. It was mighty quiet around there…too quiet.

BLEAHHHHH

Startled beyond his ability to stand straight, Paul pantsed and panicked in place like a frightened as he heard the ungodly noise above and pondered whether to run or remain where he was. After a split second more of paralyzed ambivalence, his nerves took the reins and guided him on hands and knees to the nearest eatery for cover.

BLEAHHHHH

As Paul huddled shudderingly against the inner wall of Chris's Fine Foods, he looked over and noticed that he was not alone after all. By the host/hostess stand cowered two other survivors, whom he had seen fleetingly before…a young woman in a green sweater and cream slacks so hunched over on the floor that she looked ready to hibernate inside a human-sized egg, and a macho-looking dude who looked like he could be like Louis Gossett Jr.'s fourteenth cousin, as many times removed.

The latter survivor looked back and saw Paul just as the retired psychopath saw him. Brad Garrison just winced, shook his head, and placed a protective arm around Leah's back as…

BLEAHHHHH

…the next barrage from above struck. Paul could notice something green, brown, and other colors splash up from the floor in front of the partition ahead of the others.

Like the most petrified, paunchy patron of the Park View, Paul got on his stomach and snaked towards the other two nearby. "Wh-wh-what's going on out there?" he managed as he reached Leah Stein and Brad. "Wh-wh-who's our opponent for th-th-this, anyway?"

The glass of a couple of unignited Molotovs scraped against the floor as Paul settled up a bit.

Garrison sighed as he acknowledged Paul again. "I don't know," he started. He then nodded to the faux Western scenes ahead. "It sounds as if he's gonna start breathin' fire at the rate he's going, though."

Paul mustered up all the courage he could. "I'll gi-gi-give him fire, if he wants it!" He patted his precious bottles as he spoke.

"Yeah, well, we'll see," replied Garrison. He then gasped. "Hit the deck!"

BLEAHHHHH

Garrison was now covering both Paul and Leah as some stomach slime struck him across his back. (For the Nickelodeon fans out there, perhaps it was because he had just said "I don't know" a few paragraphs ago.)

"Uhh…someone get me some water," a voice droned drearily from above.

Paul ventured a glance as he got up from under Garrison and peered ahead. A somewhat dashing, yet somewhat dazed man was drunkenly dipping back and forth between various Wild West windows above them. He wore a really tight shirt and similarly homoerotic pants for some reason as well, both of which seemed to fit him like a glove.

"His name is supposedly Brad Wong," said Garrison as he loaded a clip into his handgun. "There might be a bit of confusion between me and the enemy, so for all intents and purposes I want all of you to refer to me as Garrison, okay?"

Paul and Leah both nodded.

"Actually…no. I think 'Grand Master ICE Guru Garrison' would probably be more fitting of a person of my status and stature," he added, thinking of his rank within the DHS agency of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (or ICE for short).

"We-well, we'll just call you Ice Guru, h-h-how's that?" offered Paul as he cringed at a hocking sound from the platforms above.

"I suppose that'll do. Anyway…you know how to use that, Paul?" He eyed the kid's cocktails.

"What, this? Y-y-yeah, I'm pretty good with them, I g-g-guess."

"Well, okay then. Here's the plan. I'll cover you from here. You need to get out there and stick—to—the shadows. Try to get close to the vomiting martial artist out there, okay?"

"And th-th-then what am I supposed to do?"

"LET'S ALL GET DRUNK!!" bellowed the tipsy tough guy beyond them.

"YRAH!" answered someone, suddenly, raucously, from behind. "Let's all go get drunk-raghaghagh…"

"Uh-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!" Leah sobbed hopelessly upon hearing Gil Jimenez—her lover and Grace's father—pipe up from the floor of the Fine Foods Bar. "He's so gone, Ice Guru…I'm just gonna sniff hafta do the sobering for both of us, 'cause there's no way he's ever gonna come around…"

"Goddamn Zui Ba Xian Quan!" exclaimed Gil from the midst of his near-unintelligible stupor. "Come on! Come and get me!"

The other three survivors shook their heads as they heard, oblivious to the fact that Gil just called Brad Wong out on his drunken fighting style by its very name. The inebriated mallgoer was acutely attuned to his enemy, being as they were both at about the same level of intoxication.

Ice Guru Garrison just turned back to Paul. "The best solution would be to use that solution right there," he said, pointing to the boy's bottles and the incendiary materials within. "Whether it means burning him or maybe getting him even more drunk to the point he can't stand it…or at least can't stand."

Paul nodded in nervous assent, the fingers of one hand fidgeting toward a lighter in his pants.

"I'll stay here and cover Leah and her…significantly soused other. Watch out out there, because he'll probably lay down a boatload more of suppressing-barfs." The Guru's eyes then narrowed anally. "I'm counting on you."

Paul prepared himself and his peripherals, then set off into his unmatchable sprint after Garrison counted three.

And so another inexperienced, untrained civilian was sent out into the standoff wilderness to do the dirty Park View Food Court work of the weathered, infinitely-more-qualified Brad Garrison.

"So wh-what were you saying, Brad, before that kid came along?" Leah said from over her shoulder, her eyes homing in on a corner of the Chris's partition a few feet away.

"I said I was doing some snoop work around the rooftop between the security rooms and the warehouse a couple of hours ago—right at the start of this…tournament," Ice Guru responded. "I managed to catch a glimpse of her. 'La Colmilla.'"

"What was she d-doing?"

"I saw her out near the ledge y'all tripped over on your way through the vent. She was swaying to and fro, waving her arms in some spindly, circular, mystic-ass fashion. It sort of looked like something like you see on the infomercials—like yoga or tai chi or… pilates or some new wave crap like that."

"YRAHHHHH," sounded the refrain from Gil Jimenez again as Brad continued speaking.

Leah blinked a couple of times. "What do you think it means?"

"Means? Probably nothin' big; she's just gearin' up for her slated fight against the photographer…should it get that far."

"I s-see." Leah hugged herself more as she wondered if she would ever live beyond the 22nd.

"Ooh I'm dizzy…st-st-stay clear of cheeeeeep booooooze…"

By this point, the Tecmoland enemy had started sounding much more incomprehensible, due to the billions of booze cells that were starting to exist within him for the umpteenth trillionth time.

"D-don't come any closer!" Paul sputtered manically as he did his signature lighter-in-one-hand and liquor-in-the-other stance. Indeed, while avoiding steady streams of sickup (and occasionally failing to evade them as well), the boy, now positively plaid with puke, managed to climb up a couple of crates and catch up with the Chinese Brad at the faux windows. "You do-don't know what I can do with these, you lo-long haired punk!"

Brad Wong merely snickered at the teenager's pot-to-kettle epithet and snatched the bottle from Paul's hand with lightning speed. He then rocked back, making as if to drink down the contents—but then pulled forward again and took Paul's lighter off of him as well.

"It's better with thissshhh, yessssshhh?" asked the opponent Brad as he ignited the Molotov. Paul rolled into a ball on the hanging platform, unable to take what he could dish out, but all Brad did was swing back again and quaff the combusted concoction.

One gulp later, Brad Wong was back and facing Paul with undivided (yet intoxicated) attention. "Ain' no roooooom in thisshh hic town for the two of usssshhh hic Brads now is there?!"

Paul peeped up from between his arms. He somewhat found his voice. "I-I-my name's not Brad…"

"Aagh yer all Brads isnnnnn't 't right?" droned Wong drunkenly. "Brad Gar'sen Brad Carssssssen Brad St-St-STEIN Brad Hee…Hee…Heemennnezzzzz…"

The boy's brow scrunched at the degree of semi-consciousness his adversary had achieved. Paul could not fathom anyone ever attaining such a nirvana of bombed-ness…but apparently this was living proof. He reached for his backup weapon—a small homemade bomb of his own—within his clothes.

Unfortunately, before Paul could begin any assault on his opponent, the latter pounced upon the former with a few staggering kicks, then a jumping spin kick. As Paul fell backward, thoroughly stunned, Brad Wong dove forward and grabbed the boy by a flailing arm. He then bent over and heaved the teen over his back and over the railing nearby, so that his enemy was sent spiraling down.

Fortunately, though, Paul's fall was broken by heaps and mounds of already-eaten food that accumulated from Brad Wong's intermittent retching fits.

Looking down on Paul and his manmade mountain of mucus and other fluids, Brad Wong sighed sickly, then looked over to the abandoned Central Tacos. "Assssssa lassss time I get Mex…Mex…Mex'can."

PLOPPPPPP

Ice Guru Garrison and Leah Stein looked over the partition again as they heard Paul's unconscious body bounce off the bevomited floors. They then took cover yet again as…

PLSSSHHHH

…Brad Wong decided to dive down to them.

"Com' on out tharrrrr…Brash Stein n'…Gar'ssssson."

"Your throwing-up days are over, Wong!"

Ice Guru couldn't take it anymore, finally deciding to man up in the Food Court for once. For some reason, pushing through legions of unliving in Al Fresca was no sweat…and chasing Cabezans in torpid underground tunnels was no big thing. But standing up to an enemy in an empty food court was just too much.

Up until now.

Brad Garrison decided to shrug off his irrational phobia at last and step up, handgun in hands. "You're finished," he said furiously as he cocked to fire.

"Wa-wait…nnnnot finissshhhh yet." As Garrison's fingers tensed on his gun, Wong's probed the gourd alongside him as he swung back for another swig. Another few ounces later…"ULP…AHHH. Now'mmm finissshhh."

BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM

Just as the first couple of bullets sailed across the food court air thick with the aroma of chuck, Brad Wong instantly lay down and settled into a prone stance with one arm holding up his head. He was rendered invulnerable to Garrison's assault as the Guru continued to attack, shooting his pistol at head level and thus missing his target entirely.

"Damn it…I can't…can't…seem to hit him!" cursed the beleaguered DHS agent as he kept on futilely firing above the wily Wong. Like so many frustrated DOA players, he never thought to adjust his attack towards the ground as he squeezed the trigger again and again.

CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK

As Brad fumbled for another clip, Brad slowly approached. Just as Brad cocked and readied to fire at Brad again, Brad staggered forward and punched Brad in the midsection, then Brad stagger-punched Brad again, then Brad elbowed Brad and then Brad did this over-the-shoulder sort of punch against Brad's unfortunate face. Brad pitched backward as Brad then tripped Brad with a quick kick behind Brad's knee, then Brad got down and Brad executed a sort of breakdance floor spin and kicked Brad again, bringing Brad to the ground with Brad. Cursing once more, Brad struggled to rise, but then Brad did these kooky fadeaway standing-on-one-leg-kicking-with-the-other kicks, all of which sent Brad mercifully (for the reader) into an unconscious oblivion.

Brad Garrison might've been better off with a stronger firearm, or at least one with more bullets. But standard issue for DHS personnel was just a pistol with thirty bullets—that was the rub, as would say the Brad. I mean, the Bard.

"Wheressshhh the othe…"

CRASSSHHH

Brad Wong staggered backward—this time involuntarily—as Leah's wine cask crushed against his face. Gallons of alcohol bathed the man's features (gloriously, for him) as he sprawled to the ground.

The bereaved woman marshaled all of her adrenalin-imbued energy as she hefted another cask that she managed to get behind the Chris's partition. She decided to do as the roaring drunk Romans such as this martial monster and her own man did, and fought firewater with firewater.

Leah looked down at her enemy after slogging through several inches of vomit, her limp suddenly seceded the rush that overtook her. She lifted the next barrel over her head, raring to toss once more.

"Thasssshhh it…gime some more of that sauce…"

Before the cask- and grief-laden lady could hurl the considerable container, however, her adversary trapped her erect legs with his prone ones, sending her to the floor as well. Before she could begin to get up, Brad Wong settled in back-first with all of his weight atop Leah's own back, pinning her to the ground, filling her face with his own previously deposited bile. Her regular despondent cries became muffled under the mass of the solid-liquid mixture.

BASSSHHH

It was at that precise moment that Gil Jimenez decided he was done at the bar, having alighted from his hiding place and thrown a bottle of Royal straight into Brad Wong's puked-up puss.

"Worthssssss DRUNK!" croaked Gil hypocritically, his slurred slur matching the irony of Paul's "punk" epithet as he stutter-stepped towards Brad Wong.

_Ahhhhssshhh,_ thought Brad Wong drunkenly as he drank the last drops of alcohol on his countenance and waveringly measured his new opponent. _A mannnnn my matcsssshhhhh at lassss…_

"You don' fill my Leah's fayayayace with booze n' barf," muttered Gil under his breath, "On-onlyyyyyy I can do that."

"Asshhh good! Asshh good!" sort-of-said Brad Wong back. "We lllll see whosh better fighghgher t'…t'…t'day."

To the Chinese chugger's blatant blotto surprise, Gil settled into a one-legged fighting stance that appeared as masterful as one of the DOA fighter's own forms. Unbeknownst to Brad Wong, Gil had vacationed to China one summer with Leah and ran afoul of Chun Li, who at the time was dead set upon destroying all those in other universes with names similar to hers. She had already conquered "Yungmie" from the awful DataEastVerse (which featured characters from the Street Fighter clone "Fighter's History"), and was next targeting "Shun Di" from the Segaverse. Gil learned that this "Shun Di" had mastered drunken combat, and, greatly intrigued, had decided to find the man and become his next sloshed student. He managed to talk Chun Li into instead focusing on "Bun B" from our universe, then utilized the extra bought time to journey to Shun Di's underground lair and learn the trade of the tough yet tanked.

And so Gil sort of stood now, shifting all of his uncertain stance onto one leg and hopping forward and backward intermittently, his raised leg kicking out. Brad Wong gawked at Gil, impressed, as the latter performed a host of such kicks, going "WAP! WAP! WAP!" just as Master Shun Di did. (Not to be confused with Xtreme DOA Volleyball players, who go "FAP! FAP! FAP!")

"Issshhhh good, Brahhhd Heem…Braahhheeemmmennn…" attempted Brad Wong as he watched. "…nnnnnfrget it. Lesshhhh try 'noth…'nother kind of comptishin!"

"Pick…pick…pickkkkk…choosher poisonnnnn…" managed Gil eventually.

Moments later, Brad Wong was at the bar and Gil Jimenez was back at the bar of Chris's Fine Foods, each of them pounding down bottles of Loire down in rapid succession. "I'mmmmm so-so-soakin' nnnnn it," mumbled Gil as he knocked back another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another.

"I alwayyyysssshhh breeeeaaathin' in this worl'," replied Brad Wong incoherently as he himself knocked back exponentially more than those downed by Gil.

Indeed, try as he might, Gil could not match the smashed prowess of the muddled master that was Brad Wong. Mere minutes later, the survivor was on the floor again—this time on his face and not on his back.

"Poooooorrrrr one out for ma-ma-my dead Heeemennnnnezzzz…" said the Tecmoland anti-teetotaler, referring to the only-unconscious-and-not-deceased Gil, as he made to empty the contents of yet another wine bottle onto the Chris's floor. He then thought better of it and instead, of course, poured it down his throat.

MALLGOERS: 8

EVILDOAERS: 6

ENCOUNTER FIFTEEN: SALLY MILLS (AS RATGIRL), NICK EVANS (AS RATFETUS), CARLITO KEYES, AND GREG SIMPSON VERSUS LISA

(AS LA MARIPOSA)

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, WONDERLAND PLAZA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 9:40AM

While the other three survivors around were busy checking and fixing their respective weapons, Greg Simpson simply sat in his and sighed. The maintenance manager of Wonderland Plaza reclined in the blue chair he swiped from Lovely Fashion House as he watched the customers—his compatriots—prepping themselves for the oncoming conflict.

A slick, suave-looking fellow, basically coming off like Leisure Suit Larry:

Latino Edition, was loading a machinegun and checking his pockets for extra grenades. Whatever they would be facing, Greg didn't think it would get that bad that they'd require such firepower. But who knew, especially at this stage in the tournament.

A slim young lady with some sort of Mickey Mouse design on her shirt shaking a long stick with a small purple bauble on one end, then tapping it against the ground, so as to make sure it would be sturdy. She was rather nice, the maintenance mogul had to admit. He'd seen her hanging around before, hanging around one of those giant pink bunnies—while checking out the Space Rider and other aspects of Wonderland he'd always wanted to approach her, but never worked up the nerve.

A slob of a man, basically a mass of Caucasian protoplasm packed into shorts and a matching mousy t-shirt. He hung around the slim chick like the flabbiest of lapdogs, following her around submissively with a push broom. At some points he pressed it along the ground as if he were cleaning up after the footsteps she made on the tiles.

"Now if you want to be promoted to Ratboy, you're gonna have to really prove you've got a long enough tail between those legs," cooed Sally Mills to Nick Evans, her untiring one-man entourage. She waggled her rat stick playfully between his legs a second, which resulted in the engorging of some of his internal gelatin.

"I…I guess I can't be Ratfetus forever…" stammered Nick as he trailed Sally to a faux tree in the center "clearing" of the Plaza. "Eh-eh-especially having hit thirty and all…"

"That's right, my little fat rat," lilted Sally sexily, turning abruptly and then pinching the tar-thick turf of one of Nick's cheeks. Furtively wiping her pinching hand (of Nick's profuse sweat) against the side of the fake house nearby, she continued, "Ratgirl's gon' need her big, blubbery—I mean, bubbling Ratboy some point soon, and she can't wait much longer now, can she?" She liquefied so much fat within Nick with just a smile and a wink.

As the bulbous fanboy salivated out his next sycophantic response, Greg stared at the domestic, demure dominatrix aside the manchild and hummed lazily. He always put his surname to the ladies he'd liked, and the tune playing in his head was, appropriately, "Sally Simpson" from The Who (specifically, the album/rock opera "Tommy") as he continued to mark every move she made.

"You there!"

Greg's head shifted sideways as he acknowledged the voice hailing him from a few feet away. Leisure Suit Latino was shambling up his way, automatic rifle ready in his hands.

"You know how to use one of these?" said Carlito, proffering his gun to the blue-jacketed ex-janitor, who shrank a little into his matching blue seat.

"Oh…oh no…it's not…not in my job description."

"You might want to try and fit it into your job description, my friend," said the sinister Santa Cabezan, haltingly as ever, as he turned on his heel. Considering the horrific tragedies that would occur a year later in another similar mall a couple of states over, truer words could not possibly be spoken. (Note: This last was meant in the sincerest way possible, and I am sorry for what occurred in Nebraska—Quillon42)

Carlos looked back once, looking for any reaction on the part of Greg Simpson…then abruptly knelt and cocked his firearm upward as he found his target.

Perched on the roof of the false house in the middle of Wonderland—and not there, like, two seconds ago—was a gorgeous yet gaudy-looking luchadora, with skin of beautiful ebony yet also with costume of irritating ivory. The mask that obscured her features was covered in flashy jewels, and had doubtlessly harbored another flawless Tecmo face within.

The survivors below gathered up their weapons and other items, huddling together as they waited for their opponent to make her next move.

To their relief (and to some extent their annoyance), the woman failed to oblige them for a couple of seconds, as she simply spread herself across the top of the pretend-cottage, snapping her fingers and bobbing her head to the corny country musak characteristic of Wonderland Plaza.

"What a great rhythm!" said the adversary, as she would also say in the fourth DOA tournament after defeating various foes. "Though I think this would fit better with the whole Western theme going on in the Food Court, rather than this place."

"You gonna come down from there at some point, sister?" called Sally from below. "It's not like we have, like, 72 hours here for God's sake…much less infinity."

"I see; right, let me just—"

The erogenous enemy then suddenly flipped herself onto her feet, then leapt forward, setting her lithe form into a peculiar sort of corkscrew maneuver as she sailed through the air. Her motion was so intricate that time seemed to slow down as she soared through the banal, consumeristic Wonderland space. Even Sally stood stock still in wonderment as she watched the woman twirl…then she turned and watched her compatri-rat Nick Evans down a whole jug of milk white waiting for the lady to land…then she turned back and watched the opponent plant down squarely on both feet without an instant of falter.

Her stunning looks, moves, and just…_being_ seemed to convey one thing:

It had to be her.

"You're…you're La Colmilla, aren't you," started Sally, amazed.

"No. I am La Mariposa—The Butterfly," replied the woman as she settled into a fighting stance. "Didn't you see our Lady when she first alighted in your town?"

"No…Nick and I and some others were…hanging back at that point." Unbeknownst to anyone else, around the time when the main matron of Tecmoland first appeared around 5:00am that day, Sally and Nick had been sneaking back into Wonderland to further hone their respective Ratgirl and Ratfetus ratlike climbing abilities on the pink bunny near the Fashion House. Considering that last time they did that, they found themselves surrounded by a sea of gaping ghoul jaws beneath them…they were sort of slow learners.

"Well…you will not be conscious enough to catch any glimpse of our leader after this fight anyway," said La Mariposa, "so I suppose you have missed your one chance at gazing at pure grandeur."

The group's main man and maintenance man Greg, who was tiles away and now might as well have been miles away, couldn't disagree with his opponent more. The poor wanderer of Willamette was wrapped up in an inferno of infatuation for the new woman upon first sight of La Mariposa. Her glorious eyes and equally wonderous thighs…the flesh that surfaced in areas that the costume could not cover (which was basically everywhere)…

Greg was swimming in a Billy Ocean of emotion.

_I used to think that love was such a fairy tale…_

_Until that first hello, until that first smile…_

_But if I had to do it all again…_

_I wouldn't change a thing, 'cause this love is everlasting…_

"_Suddenly…_" sang Greg ever so softly, barely within the earshot of the other survivors. "_Life has new meaning…to me…_"

Sally, specifically, had craned her neck around, fixing the WTFest of looks upon the man.

Undaunted, the maintenance worker continued, "_There's beauty on the balls…And things we never take notice of…_"

"'Up above!'"

Greg shot a glance at Sally, his reverie irretrievably broken. "Wha…?"

"It's 'up above!' 'Beauty up above!' Not 'on the balls!'"

"Oh. I never realized," said Greg. Clearing his throat and closing his eyes, he then rared to sing again, this time perpetrating the flair of Billy's ending chorus. "_THERE's beauty up above…and THINGS YOU NEVURRRRRKKKK…_"

Unfortunately, one of the "things" Greg "never took notice of," at the moment at least, was La Mariposa's charging form as the woman raced across—faster than the other three survivors could register—and delivered a flying elbow smash that sent her serenading suitor backward into his blue chair. Tumbling end over end, the Simpson was finally silenced as he came to rest after several twirling maneuvers that were more involuntary and ungraceful than those of his love.

"I didn't like that rhythm," commented La Mariposa as she looked down on her admirer, then turned back to her conscious enemies. Pausing to allow the twangy tone of the Wonderland theme back into her ears, she eased off and started hopping in place to loosen up a bit more.

"Let's move to the rhythm!" she said almost automatonically now, maddeningly mentioning 'rhythm' for the 43657364756347th time in like a minute—just like in the last Tecmoland tourney.

Nick was next to succumb to this succubus of sucky style as his bleary eyes followed the woman's frame jumping up and down, noticing every light and sequin, squinting particularly at the two mocha mountains bouncing…

RAP RAP

"WH-WHAT!" the useless underclassrodent protested as he received a rat stick's rap or two on the head from his mousy mistress Mills.

"You're not supposed to look at that, Nick," said Sally, her stick eagerly at the ready for a third rap, or tenth, if needed.

"Uh-huh, yeah, she just…puts 'em out there to…air 'em out, right? They'll like deflate otherwise, is that it?"

"Look, Nick, if we work together on this…work as a team…I'll show you better ponce than this pouncy…pussy…cat over here. Alright?"

Nick looked skeptically at Sally for a second, unable to believe that his superior just tried to promise him something more than La Mariposa could begin to supply. Sally took this in, and raised her stick to knock out Nick just as his quartet of eyes rested on her mouse-face-covered concave chest…

But then La Mariposa literally beat her to the punch, executing a spinning downward corkscrewing coldcock that bowled Nick Evans over onto the expanse of his ass. Her fever for fight frothing into a frenzy, the luchadora then picked up the fat rat and leapt onto him, quickly working around him in an effort to pull off a hasty hurricanarana. The woman spun and spun around the obese ogre that was Nick…and spun and spun…and spun and spun…and spun…

…then collapsed to the ground in DOA "Xtreme" xhaustion just before she could complete one full revolution around the battered survivor.

"Well, well, our fancy-fabric femme fatale,"said Sally as she started towards La Mariposa, palming the bauble of her rat stick in an open palm in anticipation. She noticed that Carlito was nowhere to be found as she prepared to hopefully end the round. Nonetheless, she went on: "Do you submit?"

"Hih-a-hih-a-hih-a-hih-a-hih-a…" breathed La Mariposa on the ground.

Sally thought to drive into her enemy with her rat stick, like a stake against the heart of a vampire…then thought of a better idea. Quickly she flicked out with her mighty rod, smashing her dazed associate rat in the face hard enough to knock him down—hopefully right on top of her foe.

"NO!" cried the masked maiden as she snaked out from under the toppling tub of flab that was Nick Evans, just as the cheeks of her face were to meet with those of his ass.

A second later, the enemy was up and dancing about once more, her strength fully renewed by her narrow escape from Nick's wide posterior.

"Good thing I've been working out so much!" she said as she fixed her sights on Sally. "Those PE programs are helping me and the girls out just as much as the game execs!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Sally, looking first at La Mariposa and then at her downed companion, whom she just demoted from Ratfetus to Ratfeces. He wasn't even good for dead weight.

"Oh, just a small side project I initiated between dimensions!" chirped the fine, flighty fighter as she continued to bob around spryly. "I thought it might be a great idea to develop a fitness regimen for various game publishers and developers, perhaps it might get their minds off of doing "Xtreme" games a bit if they started working out other parts of their bodies than…well, you know."

Sally nodded in full understanding, getting a bit winded just watching La Mariposa flit about.

"So yeah, so…I started these 'PE'…'Physical Education' things up, to make it like high school gym class, almost…started with Physical Education at Tecmo, or PETECMO…then did Konami, with PEKONAMI…now I'm hoping to do Capcom and we'll name that PECAPCOM…"

"Uh huh," said Sally, almost ready to faint.

"And then one of the ones I'm really looking forward to's gonna be NIS—Nippon Ichi Software!" said La Mariposa, reveling in the full heat of her workout. "We're gonna call it PE…"

BLAM

Just as she was about to drop where she stood, Sally snapped a glance upward, where she thought she heard the rifle shot that apparently slammed right into the top of La Mariposa's mask.

Carlito.

About #in' time.

"Where were you?!" piped Sally as she looked up to the tournament terrorist, then looked over to see…only a mask ruined by the mark of the sniper. Gone already?

"I could not take another second of that woman's airheaded raving about 'rhythm'!" yelled the wily Keyes as he slammed down his sniper, like, cannon. "That, my friend…was hell."

"Well, it looked as if you got her a second…but she's…not here now…"

"Chinga mis chimichangas!" cursed Carlito. "I'm going to go flush her out with some goddamn grenades! You stay on the first floor and keep a lookout, comprende, hija?"

"Y-yeah," said Ratgirl as her Santa Cabezan savior stormed off and out of view.

Xperiencing the most xcedrin-inspired of headaches, La Mariposa—now merely "Lisa" without her luchadora mask—staggered toward the controls of the Space Rider to rest a second. Wearily she set down her superlatively scrumptious haunches and closed her eyes.

"_Get outta my dreams…_" a light, smooth voice whispered to her from a foot away. Instantly she blinked her peepers back open and spied Greg Simpson approaching ever so slowly and gently. He pointed with both fingers to the stationary Space car, singing, "_Get into my car…_"

Lisa let out a long, labored sigh. "You just don't quit, do you? I kick you onto your wrinkly ass and you're still comin' at me, belting out Billy Ocean."

"_Get out of my mind…_"

"You're out of _your_ mind, old man," Lisa cut him off cruelly. You just had to feel bad for Greg at this point.

"I'm only out of my mind because of you, my dear 'La Mantequilla.'"

"That's 'Mariposa.' It's 'butterfly,' not 'butter,' you butt--"

"Whatever, my love. In case you were wondering, I managed to…sneak about a bit, once I regained consciousness, through various secret passageways I know around here. I just last visited my favorite one…in the ladies' bathroom."

"Mmhmm," said Lisa, writhing within in contempt and disgust.

"Anyways, my lady…I snooped around a bit and found this." He offered forth a small multicolored card.

"Where did you get that? Give me that!" shouted said lady as she stepped forward and wrenched the card out of the man's hand. Sure enough, it was her lifetime membership card to _Zack of All Trades_.

"_Zack of All Trades_…sounds kinda…kinky, if you don't mind my saying so," said Greg. "Says your name is Lisa. Lisa…Last-name-less. Very exotic."

"Uh…uh-huh!" said Lisa, suddenly very cooperative. She had an idea. With the utmost suggestion she held her hands out toward him. "You want to try me?"

"Oh…do I ever," sputtered Greg. "You know…I know some…other shortcuts around here…shortcuts where…maybe you and I could…get lost…for a bit?"

Lisa's lower lip scrunched suggestively for a second, then she smiled broadly. She ran to the man and jumped into his arms. "Of course!"

"Gr…great," stammered Greg, a bit too weak to support Lisa's load, as anorexic as it was. "A-after we're through…you're g-gonna be my very own…g-gonna become Lisa Simpson. Well, we c-can…start with the Sp-space Rider over h-here…"

"You took the words right out of my mouth, stranger," purred the woman seductively.

Greg rolled his shoulders back to adjust Lisa's load a bit into his arms, then continued on towards the Rider controls. He was euphoric as he carried out his labor of lust, his legs pounding forward to reach the panel. About one game hour later he got there and started shuffling so as to set Lisa down.

"Here…allow me."

Then, before Greg could make another move, the lady shifted so that both her feet rested atop Greg's chest—just for an instant. She then grabbed his shoulders and rocked backward, sending him sprawling down on top of her…almost. At the last second, her legs shot out, pressing against Greg's falling form and sending him high into the air.

The man landed roughly a moment later—right on the Space Rider track inside the amusement's entrance.

He picked himself up just in time to see Lisa toying with the controls, pushing this button and that, yanking a lever that started things to churn into motion. "Oh, no, honey, you don't wanna do that," he pleaded.

"Oh, but I do, Greggy Poo," crowed the woman evilly. "See, I don't exactly have any interest in becoming Lisa Simpson anytime soon."

Eying the approaching car nervously, Greg blubbered, "W-well you don't have to take my name! You can stay Lastnameless!"

"In a few seconds it won't make a difference to you, hon," said Lisa, making sure the ride's speed was up past even that set by the murderous, out of control clown. "I'm in the groove, Greg! Or actually, really…_you_ are."

As inept as survivors were at climbing a simple ledge near the infamous security area air vent, they were astronomically worse at climbing out of the "groove" of which Lisa was speaking—the trench through which the Space Rider track ran. Futilely Greg tried leaping and hopping, all to no avail. There was no getting out of the literal rut in which he was placed.

WHOOOSH

At the last possible moment, Greg smushed himself against the side of the trench just as the ride's car slid past him. The ride was set to the maximum speed, but it still took a few seconds for it to reach that velocity. With the capsule out of the way, at least for a couple of instants, perhaps he could try to climb up again…

KICK

A jumping reverse spin kick to the head, courtesy of Lisa Lastnameless, sent Greg spinning back into the indentation of imminent peril. Greg stood back up and shook himself off just in time to register…

CRUNNNNNCH

…the revolving car of the Space Rider ramming right into his midsection, the railed transport moving so fast that it carried Greg on its nose around and around for a couple of circuits. After a turn too many, however, the ride literally burst at the seams, with the track and its supports wrenching apart from the great force exerted upon it. The speeding car, with Greg still upon it, whistled off the track and flew towards the exit to North Plaza—but slammed into the back of the giant pink bunny head nearby before it could reach the opening.

Lisa looked out at the wreckage, proud to have Greg done like Dan Killian from the movie version of The Running Man. She exulted for a bit longer, then started to exit…but then…

BOOOM

…the titillating tough girl was thrown off her feet by a sudden explosion. Its concussive energy sent her flying towards, then off, the railing leading up to the Rider.

The woman smacked against the first floor ground, then bounced high into the air, her bust not only breaking her fall but propelling her nearly back onto the Space Rider landing. The side railings were just within reach…

RATATATATATATATATATATATATA

…but just as she was about to grope for them, a slew of bullets from Carlito's machinegun interfaced with her face. Lisa's falling form connected with the first floor again, this time slamming down without a rebound as she landed on her side. Before she could get up again, Sally was upon her, the bauble of her rat stick gleaming in the sunlight as she executed the stake-like vampire slaughter she had thought to carry out earlier.

"Good job with those grenades, _Don_ Keyes," said Sally, addressing Carlito with the respectful "_Don_" title used in Spain and some other places.

"I would say you are not too shabby with that stick, yourself," said the armed-to-the-teeth terrorist, "but please do not call me 'donkey.'"

Sally smiled without and shined within as she took her now-gory rat stick and used it as a scepter to knight herself as Ratwoman. She was no Ratgirl anymore.

She then looked up to Carlito as he was looking off towards North Plaza. "What do you see out there?"

"It's…it's Greg. He's…hanging from one of the sides of the pink bunny! We should go and get him down."

Of course…after the Space Rider capsule whirled around and around, then flew at lightspeed into the oversized mascot, Greg must have climbed out of the wreck and ended up hanging from the giant. This same exact thing was what must have happened to Sally and Nick before Frank West found them.

As Carlito and Sally met up at the end of Wonderland—naturally forgetting about Nick, like anyone would—they looked up at Greg and looked for something to chuck to get him down. Finding nothing, the Santa Cabezan shrugged and reached inside his shirt for another grenade.

"Hey, Carlito," said Sally as the Latino was about ready to throw his lethal projectile. "What do you think about this…'La Colmilla' person?"

"You know…" started the man, "I've been wondering about her too…who she is and what she's all about…" He tossed his explosive high, but the strain of battle made him a bit weary and he completely missed, his grenade exploding on the stairs to North.

"You speak Spanish, of course, right? Like, what does it mean in your language…'Colmilla'? I mean, we all know what 'Pachamama' means by now and all, but…"

"I don't think there's any word 'Colmilla' in Spanish," said Carlito, ready to throw another grenade. "But I do know that 'colmillo' is a kind of tooth!"

He let fly with the little bomb, and this time it found its proper mark, the resulting blast sending Greg sailing downward.

Indeed, "colmillo" in Spanish did mean a kind of tooth--Sally and Carlito flinched as Greg hit the ground hard--

…or Fang.

MALLGOERS: 9

EVILDOAERS: 6

ENCOUNTER SIXTEEN: JESSIE MCCARNEY, DEBBIE WILLETT, ALAN PETERSON, BRIAN REYNOLDS, AND TODD MENDELL VERSUS TINA ARMSTRONG

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, WAREHOUSE AREA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 10:00AM

"Okay, so you were saying to me a couple of days ago that the game, the Dead or Alive Xtreme 2 game with all the bounce and all, it has its initials the way it is, to be like 'Do Acts To…' something, right?"

"Ye…uhhhhh…"

Brian Reynolds's question to Todd Mendell stood unanswered for several seconds as the latter leaned against a mostly white striped wall, gaping and gawking at the spherical spectacle before him. As Jessie McCarney flexed her ample chest muscles to lift the steel rack from the far wall, Todd copped a sight of pectoral perfection that might have eventually made him blind, had his buddy not tapped his shoulder with a shotgun barrel.

"Yo Toddy, I was saying…" Brian glanced over to check the visual siren that was Jessie as well…then glanced back towards Todd. "What? You act like you've never seen…those things before."

"Na…na…not like those," mumbled Brian's sock-capped friend in abject amazement. "Those beat Tecmo's ah-ah-anyday…"

Jessie practiced docile yet somewhat awkward swings with the steel rack as the other rack pertaining to her swung freely, inches below her bifocaled features.

Brian chanced a second look and shrugged, "Yeah, she's not so bad. A bit overmuch, I think really, but I'd hit it. But Todd; I really want to know. This DOA thing you mentioned? I'm trying'a remember, it's funny; I wanna tell the other guys at the quarry."

Todd blinked away for a second at last, his eyes burning from the glare of the humongous headlights, and regained a small fraction of his composure. He wrung the lead pipe sweatily in his hand. "Yeah, I was sayin'…not 'Do Acts To,' but, like, you know…you know how the game is called Dead or Alive Xtreme 2, and the initials are 'DOAX2,' right?"

As Todd reinitiated the explanation of his integral hypothesis regarding the DOAX2 acronym, another man much older yet equally entranced by Jessie—Alan Peterson—grabbed at the tools in the toolbox he found as he watched the young woman. Absently he thumbed at a tool and placed it back in the box as he eyed away, all the while thinking of the insertion of another kind of tool into another kind of box. Something like _this_ made him want to switch back to his original inclination.

See, Alan was a…curious sort…in an orientation sense. He had his fill of the ladies when he was younger, and ended up with the looker with the loveliest lookers: Katharine Peterson. She was named after the very Hepburn, with a face just as chiseled and irresistible, with eyes large and round, seemingly even moreso than the…bounty of the blonde he was now watching.

Of course, time turned all that around, and wrinkles, combined with drinking and other bodily self-abuse, befell Kathy, wore her down and out. She became desirable no longer, and Alan began to use his two eyes more actively than his wife ever could now with her one.

Yes, he would readily admit, as Kathy accused him at the Entrance, there was the hanky-panky…honestly, he was hard at work, most of the time. But every hardworking man was entitled to some down time, even at the office, and there was that secretary. The one who invited him into the closet.

Every day Alan looked down the secretary's red top and noticed the rise of the chest. Every day he looked at glasses that were larger than Miss McCarney's over there now, but equally as endearing. Every day he would imagine leaving Kathy and marrying the object of his administrative affection, and calling himself by his new spouse's name.

Calling himself…Alan Brenton.

Yes, that lovely Mr. Brenton worked part time at his place, and part time at that petty clothes outlet here at the mall…how he wished the big boy would just transfer over to his office full time. He always talked about "knocking off early" at In the Closet; the slang instantly brought to mind the image of said secretary's pair of knobs, knocking against him in the throes of…

"Yeah, so anyway," continued Todd, talking to Brian and distracting Alan from his thoughts. "Like, back in the day—like in the nineties or maybe even before then and stuff, like, you could refer to your…thing as, like, an 'ax'; like, when you said your 'ax,' it meant you were talking about your…you know."

"Okay, uh huh," said Brian.

"And so, like, my theory is that I think it's all subliminal, like, Itagaki wants us to play his Team Ninja games, but he's also thinking we should do something else with our hands…or hand, really, uh, free hand…while we're playing."

As Todd kept on chattering away, Debbie Willett herself chattered with the cold chill of holding her fire extinguisher, as well as that brought on by the paralysis of infatuation. As with Alan, Debbie was the curious type, and scoping out the DH-Chest agent with her rack over there made her come over to the side of her own gender exponentially more.

"Deborah" meant "bee" in another language—but not the language of the heritage under which Ms. Willett had been descended. No, in her culture, her given name (which was actually always "Debbie" and never Deborah, even on her birth certificate) meant not "bee" but "bi"—"De Bi" to be exact. And she lived up to that name since the womb, becoming an equal opportunity lover for all.

How she would love to have an opportunity now, with the jumbo boob jamboree that was Jessie McCarney. God, just the thought of it made her want to point the nozzle of her extinguisher in her own face, to put out the passion.

Jessie swung and swung with the steel rack some more, much to the delight of Alan, Brian, Todd, and Debbie—but soon their opponent would arrive.

"So, I see; it's like there's the 'do,' and the 'ax,' in DOAX2," said Brian, catching on finally. "So the point is that while you're playing, like Itagaki is secretly suggesting…"

"Yeah, you're supposed to DO…your AX…TOO!"

"Ohhhhhhh…I get it."

Todd and Brian nodded their heads and chuckled at the lead-bearing dwarf's clever jibe for only a moment or two, however, as:

"Sorry to keep you waiting!"

At the sound of the entering voice, all heads turned and lolled, even Jessie's. It was really the non-McCarney survivors' lucky day; who would have thought of the possibility that such well-endowed estrogenic lightning would strike in the same place. As such luck would have it, _another_ beautiful bountiful blonde strolled silkily across the catwalk above the others, then hopped down innocently to land beside the bombshell who bounced in first. As much as Jessie was…well, Jessie…this winsome newcomer was infinitely…_Jessier._ Just as much preceding her frame as following her…and somehow more slender to boot. The mallgoers who were not McCarney looked at their Homeland Security homegirl and suddenly opined that some of her excessive sexy flesh was baby fat ooze compared to the solid curves and details of their opponent for this battle.

"Name's Tina…Tina Armstrong," the new woman began, tipping her tacky western hat to all others present. Receiving heady stares instead of handshakes, she continued, "I see y'all, or most of ya're…bit tongue-tied at the moment. No worry, jibbin' and jabbin's not what we're here for anyway. Well, maybe jabbin'."

Tina then proceeded to loosen up a bit by working her fists against a couple of cardboard boxes atop a shelf or two. As the flimsy materials fell away, revealing various sundry life necessities as stun guns and frozen vegetables, the fighter rocked her head back and let out a hearty laugh. "Ha! This place is just bustin' with goodies, ain't it? I'd say I could use this shower head over here for my next skateboarding electric guitar music vide…"

Tina turned as she tried to get out the last words, but never finished her thought as Jessie's rack (the inorganic one) struck her full in the face. The wrestler-turned-model-turned-actress-turned-rockstar, and soon to be global warming spokesperson, turned end over end as the steel monstrosity raked her face and rocked her frame to the ground. In a flash, however, Tina got back up, looking worse for wear insofar as her makeup was irretrievably ruined…yet also somewhat better for wear as that cheesy chapeau was knocked from her noggin.

"I…I don't intend to give this one up," she said, her face bleeding not blood but runny-ass mascara.

Jessie then reared back to try and crush Tina with another racktacular onslaught, but Tina leaped forward with a double leg drop kick before the government blonde could follow through. The agent toppled to the ground, her steel rack shattering but her real rack intact. (Well, we're assuming it's real, anyway.)

Jessie reached out to the other survivors, groping for a helping hand, as Tina went to work on her. The Tecmo titaness first settled in with a vicious elbow drop that landed in the middle of the McCarney mountains. The wrestler then picked up the Willamettan wallop of a woman and engaged in a belly to belly suplex that resulted in Jessie's head ramming against a metal support. The violated voluptuosity's spectacles split in two upon impact, and as such she was rendered sightless.

"Help…" Jessie pleaded, to the other survivors, who were dumbstruck not from being so afraid but really from being so aroused. "Flaming flannel guy…I know I saw you with a sh-shotgun-URGH…" She trailed off as Tina again forced Jessie to her feet, then floored her again with a straight-on punch, a spinning punch, and then a downward hooking punch.

She continued her pleas between various jabs from Tina. "Please…little toad with the pipe…UGH…lecherous scumbag with the tools…ACK…butch lady with the fire exAAARGH…"

But no help came from the four other survivors around the agitated agent. They were all hypnotized by the hedonistic ogle-worthy ordeal that was going on between the unbelievably fortified females. The thought finally entered Jessie's head, as it pointed downward to the floor in the midst of Tina's pile driver, that she would have to do her own dirty work.

CRUNCH

She shook her head repeatedly as Tina backed off to humanely give her a second to recover. She squeezed her hazel eyes shut…

…and all watched a second later as they went white upon opening again.

Jessie then staggered to her feet, unnaturally, inhumanly…her head down.

Tina lost her patience and stepped in once more. "That's it, I'm not pulling any punches…"

But just as the fighter cocked her fist back to strike again, the once-woman, once-human "Jessie" lifted her now-infected face and acknowledged her enemy with crimson orbs for eyes.

As Tina hesitated, shocked a second, Jessie reached in and literally "pulled" her opponent's punch for her, yanking her opponent's arm forward and sending her flying into the boxes and crates underneath the catwalk behind them.

"YEAH, alright! Woo!" cawed Todd with gratified glee as he watched the woman he loved so lustily. "Get that other whore down right where she belongs! Then get down _with_ her!"

Even in her monstrified mode, something else within Zombie Jessie snapped at that point, at hearing such derogatory language. Even she-creatures didn't appreciate being treated as objects by the dumber sex.

And so, turning away from Tina, the ex-Jessie clambered over ever so slowly to Todd, with no one, especially Todd, resisting.

She then grabbed him with one arm and brought his head towards her gaping, waiting mouth.

Finally, Brian, Alan, and Debbie looked away, cringing, anticipating the ugly, bloody inevitable.

And bloody it was…though not in the way anyone expected.

As Tina struggled to wrest herself from a tangle of boxes and pallets, she gaped in shock as she watched Zombie Jessie shunt Todd's head down into the depths of her DDDDDD's and flex sharply, pulping his cranium and reducing his wooly hat to so many frayed threads.

All battle, breathing, and background musak stopped in synch as the four remaining humans took in, or at least began to take in, what the woman once known as Jessie just did. Brian's jaw dropped. Alan's hands went to his head. Debbie's brow creased so much it basically folded unto itself.

And then, after a few more lingering seconds, all three ran up to Zombie Jessie, offering their own domes.

"STOP, get…unf get out of my way!" cranked Alan as he fought to get in front of Brian.

"No way, man! Todd was my best ugh buddy…it's only fitting that…oof I should go next!"

"Guys, guys!...Lady!" yelled Tina to the three living survivors. She threw up her hands. "I can't believe you guys! What is this world coming to?"

Brian, Alan, and Debbie all bowed their heads shamefully for a moment as Zombie Jessie absently sifted some of Todd's gray matter from her considerable chest.

"I mean, God, guys," said Tina, shaking her runny-mascaraed head.

"Can't you form a _line?!_"

The other three nodded weakly, then pumped forward again towards the waiting un-Jessie. Tina rested against a steel support as she watched Brian get…discomboobulated next, then Alan.

"Can't really blame you for running to a girl with her cans," she said, aping the one line that Jessie said, during Frank West's cases and scoops, that actually exhibited a faint glint of personality.

An instant later, Debbie stood before Zombie Jessie, her eyes brighter than ever, waiting for her own personal titstillation.

Her smirk turned to sneer, however, as the beastified babe trudged away from her, tearing more gore from her giant gumdrops as she plodded.

"What?!" protested Debbie to the empty space before her. Rejected again. Even with a dead girl, she couldn't get her homoerotic rocks off.

By the time the scorned she-man looked over to the other two who were still standing, the latter were locked in another literal life-or-death struggle. Armstrong struck Zombie with a leaping butt flop that floored the creature for a moment. Zombie then got to her feet, clawed at Armstrong, distracting her, then climbed on top of the woman's shoulders, literally zombie-roading the wrestler for a few instants. Gasping under the immense weight of Zombie Jessie (most of which was in her mammaries), Tina oomphed up, grabbed Zombie's ankles, pulled her down, and engaged in a back to belly suplex that sent the undead agent back toward where Debbie was standing. Tina then charged the dead Jessie, but the latter lunged out of the way with alarming speed, sending the Tecmo tough girl straight into the other survivor. Debbie's face involuntarily plunged into Tina's plunging neckline, the sensation of the cleavage chloroforming "De Bi" into a blissful oblivion. And she didn't even have to get her head crushed for it.

Tina spun around just in time to catch the zaftig zombie reaching for her, her now-jaundiced Jessie jaws snapping at her, reaching past both their pairs of jugs to get to her jugular. The blonde bruiser couldn't believe the government ghoul's strength; it was all she could do to keep her opponent from tearing her throat out—to say nothing of pushing her away.

Another minute and Tina would be torn open, from tip to teat to toe.

"STOP!"

Both blondes shot glances upward at the voice.

"LA COLMILLA COMMANDS IT SO!!"

And then, stalking across the same catwalk that Tina had only a quarter hour ago, was the cowled, cheongsam-ed image of La Colmilla herself. Her stance was firm, her figure proud, her face still obscured.

And yet, the mistressmind of the entire tournament could still look through to the garnet gaze of Zombie Jessie McCarney.

La Colmilla began to wave her arms whimsically, commencing some tai chi kata which she mastered in her home country of China.

"Look unto my arms and into my eyes…La Colmilla demands that you be still, beast of great breasts…"

The undead agent could do nothing; she was frozen in the trance set in by the domineering diva above her.

"Unto my arms…into my eyes…"

The mistress was pleased that Tina could hang back and catch her breath for a second, out of the grip of her deadly foe…pleased that said foe was stymied under her kata spell…

…yet Zombie Jessie's eyes did not alter, her broken form did not straighten, her ponce-pillowed physiology did not revert.

The tourney organizer realized she had to reveal herself, to intensify her effect, to pacify the threat to Tina and her own contest.

She lifted her cowl.

"I command it so…

"Your mistress commands it so…

She locked cold, hard brown eyes upon the bloody rubies in Zombie Jessie's ocular sockets.

"_Lei Fang_ commands it…so…"

As the one below La Colmilla—now Lei Fang at the moment—continued to stare upward, the red receded in its eyes…turning pink…then cream…

…then the hazel irises reemerged.

"Ohh…" Not-Zombie-But-Now-Just-Blondie Jessie oozed woozily, placing her hand to her head. "Wh…where…"

The mistress above then nodded to Tina, who nodded back and grabbed poor Jessie roughly and abruptly. Before the buxom once-beast could react, the wrestler tossed her to the ground in the nastiest of body slams, then without hesitating wrapped Jessie's legs up with her own in an inescapable leg submission.

"Uhh…Uhh…Braaa…Brad…Bradly…" was all Jessie could utter, before slapping on the floor for Tina to release her.

"Well, I'll be!" said Tina, as she dusted herself off, standing up once more. "That was…"

She then looked to the floor and noticed that Jessie was unconscious.

"That was necessary, Tina," said La Colmilla from above, satisfied that her tai chi trance took full effect in finally knocking Jessie out. "She would have ripped your throat out otherwise."

"Ahh, I could've shook her off, in another few seconds."

"Perhaps. But I didn't want to risk one of my best assets in finding out." Lei Fang waved for the wrestler to join her. "Come upside again. I will need one of my best enforcers by me in the ensuing rounds. It looks as if this will be a close contest...and I will not lose.

As Tina started toward the warehouse elevator, Lei Fang continued, maniacally, "In the name of my honor—in the name of my womanhood—in the name of that of the other whor…I mean, women, of Tecmoland!"

MALLGOERS: 9

EVILDOAERS: 7


	5. Battles 17 through 21

ENCOUNTER SEVENTEEN: SEAN KEANEN, CHERYL JONES, JENNIFER GORMAN, AND BETH SHRAKE VERSUS CHRISTIE

ENCOUNTER SEVENTEEN: SEAN KEANEN, CHERYL JONES, JENNIFER GORMAN, AND BETH SHRAKE VERSUS CHRISTIE

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, COLBY'S MOVIELAND,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 10:20AM

Despite all of his religious rhetoric and other fanatical falderal, Sean Keanen was, deep down, (or in all honesty just beneath the surface), just like any other red-white-and-blue-blooded American heterosexual male. He wasn't really after salvation.

What he wanted was power.

What he wanted was glory.

But what he wanted more than any of that crap was…

…the ideal woman.

"And so that's all you've got to defend yourself?" asked Beth to Jennifer, a few feet away in that same theater, Number Four, occupied by all of the presently competing survivors. The older, almost ancient woman motioned towards the small, saturated package in the younger woman's hands.

"Yeah, well, if Keanen's plan works right," said Jennifer Gorman, holding up her little bag of baking ingredients, "this should be all I need. He's supposedly got my back on this."

"Well, I just hope he doesn't end up stabbing us there," Cheryl chimed in as she approached the other two girls. "And I hope he keeps his word about the Mega Buster Pegging."

In the near two-thirds of a century that he had been on some god's earth, Sean had

begged an authority on high to bestow upon him his proper helpmeet; the one to complement him, one who would follow him but also one whom he would worship in turn. The Adam to his Eve. (No, not _that_ Adam.)

All those years, Sean had prayed…supplicated…

…_beseeched._

But nothing, or no one, had ever come.

But now, as he prepared for another to come, as, specifically, he prepared for the Second Coming of this apparent "Christ" figure—this "Christie" of whom he had never heard or seen, to this very moment—he wondered if there was any time left for his search. If it truly were the end of the world that were upon him.

Said Beth nearby: "Yeah! I'm lookin' forward to grabbin' one of those phony Mega Busters in the theater store and beaning his ass into 2007."

Jennifer laughed in time with the lady's statement and Cheryl merely, evilly grinned. Indeed, how greatly she was looking forward to the pegging in question.

But she wouldn't be getting her Mega Buster from any theater store.

No, Cheryl saw another of a nicer, darker shade of blue—right in a far corner of the security area. Navy was much more her hue than cyan, anyhow.

As the bodacious blonde pondered the pending pegging, Sean looked over to her and the other girls as they stood by the braziers and his current besworded goddess (which he set back up after healing himself by some canned food (carrots, to be exact) from his favorite store—Seon's, naturally—carrots are good for the eyes, after all). The other survivors were thinking over his plan, he could see; thinking over whether to go along with what he proposed. Perhaps the crate diversion with Jennifer, the theater seat tie-up fake-out by Beth, and the ambush from the closet by spunky Miss Jones would work. That is, if Jennifer, Beth, and Cheryl were willing to assume their previous positions in cultist captivity, under the this-time-feigned threat of his ceremonial sword.

Of course, again being an American man, his own personal "sword" swayed his focus much more on Cheryl than the other two women.

Back when he was twenty-six instead of his present sixty-two, Cheryl might have represented a very possible female ideal. Blonde hair and a well-built figure, not unlike himself when he was around that age, as his now-silver hair was once gold as well. Others always teased him that he always sought after women who actually physically reminded him of himself; this narcissistic streak earned him the nickname "Keen-On Sean," a simple reversal of his first and last names, but how very true.

But now the sexagenarian—as sex-starved as he was—was a bit repelled by such yellow tresses. Blonde was baneful rather than beautiful to Sean now…although he admitted that he still lusted after a body such as hers.

He then looked to Beth, to her gray mane and gangly outline, and saw the other extreme. Here he loved the hair, as it was as…"mature" as his own. Yet he rejected the rest of her, desired something other than the spindliness of Old Lady Shrake.

If only there were a woman who had the aesthetic body of Cheryl, yet the geriatric hair of Beth. Curves that could condemn a man, yet curls of gray…or silver…

…or even white.

But no, that was just the stuff of fantasy.

Enough for now. The time of the Coming was almost nigh.

"Behold!" he shrieked, addressing Cheryl, Beth, and Jennifer. He held up a wristwatch given him by the hobo of a hero that was Frank West. "Our time is almost come. Let the plan bestowed upon me by the Almighty work its way unto our success and deliverance from this contest of abomination."

Jennifer and Beth nodded readily, the latter placing the painting she was given by Sean next to her theater seat.

"Whoa, there, Cult 45," said Cheryl, "or should I say '65'…don't go off mentioning 'Deliverance' to us now. You've already got us in a compromised position enough as it is."

"Fear not, my young blonde blessing…the resulting reckoning that will visit us upon the close of this base battle shall redeem all of our efforts…especially those of you three, much more than myself."

"Yeah, just don't forget about your promise with the pegging," chided Cheryl. "Your ass is literally ours after this."

With that, the vivacious vixen clambered into the theater closet, taking with her a mannequin that approached a fraction of the perfection of her inimitable figure. Beth settled into her seat and allowed the ropes that tied her down before to fall over her in seeming bondage. And Jennifer stepped back into the box in which she was nearly butchered—the crate out in Paradise that was now brought up close to the closet in which Cheryl now hid.

As he waited for the new "Christ" to come, Sean mulled over his plan…or, perhaps, His plan. The zany zealot was to pose with his sword pointed downward over Jennifer's crate, chanting as if ready to sacrifice Tomonobu Itakagi, creator of the Dead or Alive anathema. Sean didn't know Itagaki from Adam (again, _not_ the goofy clown Adam), nor did he ever see the pulchritudinous prostitutes that populated the games. But from what he had heard, from the other survivors and from the Almighty, that Tecmo temple of titillation was evil unbridled—and it required proper purging.

Beneath his sword, Jennifer strained her ears, waiting for her cue. All she had to hear was Sean uttering some phrase or other about Christie "shedding" the "sole tribulation"—that of fighting the survivors—to achieve salvation. At the mention of those words, she was to spring out of the crate (by which point Sean would have put up his sword…hopefully) and toss her baking ingredients at her opponent, hopefully covering her with flour or whatever and blinding her. At that point, the others would continue with their respective parts. Jennifer clutched tightly at the bulging packet in his hands and waited.

In the closet, Cheryl also put her erotic ear to the wall, waiting for the word. Hers were to follow directly on the heels of Jennifer's; after Sean mentioned something about the "sole tribulation," he would then bark something along the lines of "I am deaf to the cries of those fallen into sin" or some garbage of that sort. All she knew was that she had to burst bust-first out of the closet, brandishing the full body of her mannequin, upon the "I am deaf" part; that was her triggering code phrase. After Jennifer hopefully blinded their enemy, Cheryl would move in and bash away with a silicone figure not unlike her own. As she held said body close, she hoped that the plan would go off without a snag; she was allergic to flour, after all, and feared Jennifer's "weapon" more than any sword.

On the theater seat, Beth watched and waited. Once Christie was blinded and bashed, she would "break free" of the ropes that were loosely draped around her, and bring the painting by her side down over her adversary's head. Hopefully, the portrait's sturdy frame would hold as it then encircled the opponent's waist, pinning the opponent's arms to his sides and rendering him immobile. For the last step, Sean would then move in with his ceremonial sword and destroy the foul abomination. Beth's breath caught in her throat as she thought, her mind wandering to the range of raincoats that once surrounded her former captor. She decided that she despised those yellow coated men, and that the next person she saw wearing a coat or jacket—cultist or not—she would rip the clothing right off that individual's back.

The heaviest thoughts in the theater once again became Sean's, his brain bending around the idea of killing this "Christ."

And then this "Christ" finally came.

Sean's eyes followed the up ramp to the double doors of his makeshift inner sanctum as he beheld what he believed would be the false god.

He saw no god…but a goddess.

His goddess.

The woman for which he had waited for all of his senior existence.

Cream-colored skin, revealing itself in many places, radiated out in many areas from this vision of feminine flawlessness. Where there was not flesh, there was flame—a blue flame pattern blazingly emblazoned across her garish yet gorgeous costume. _Holy fire, not hellfire,_ he thought to himself.

And the scalp of this sorceress. How it housed nothing less than hair that was the pearly white of the gates of Heaven itself.

This, indeed, was the impossible woman whom Sean had imagined was only a fancy of fantasy.

His lust locked in a pitched battle with his instinct, Sean settled over Jennifer's crate with his sword hilt sweatily held in both hands, but his eyes transfixed on his alighting enemy. Nervously he began to chant Itagaki's first name…a chant which ended up sounding strangely like the one he did before fighting and dying against Frank West.

"TomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobuTomonobu…"

WHEEEEEE BEAT BEAT

WHEEEEEE BEAT BEAT

WHEEEEEE BEAT BEAT

For some reason, this really obnoxious music with annoying whistle noises and fast drum beats always accompanied Sean's chants. Whether he did it at the movie theater, the True Eye's compound, or the local VFW post, this was always inexplicably the case.

"Well, what do we have here?" harumphed the "Christ" as she skulked down towards Sean. "I get to play with this cute skinny old man."

"TomonobuTomonobuTomonobu…"

WHEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIISSSHHH

As Christie got closer, Sean's "whistle" suddenly hardened and ceased its irritating issuance. He held fast with his sword over the box, yet he could not stop staring at his opponent's open coat, almost revealing her fully; could not stop staring at her cold, hard, yet alluring eyes and unrealistic porcelain face; could not stop staring at her ivory, Isosceles hairstyle.

"You…you must be p-…" he started throatily, his hands wavering a bit around the hilt. "You must be p-p-p…"

"I must be _what_ now?" asked Christie incredulously, leaning in carefully to hear her enemy.

It was all Sean could do to get out that Sesame Street brought-to-you-by word of the day that he adored so much:

Purge.

But he couldn't pull through.

"You must p-p-p…

"You must PUR-RRR-RCH!" he finally spat out.

His appealing adversary crinkled her brow at the word. "I must _perch?_ God, you know, I get away from that loser Zack and all the posing and pole dancing I was doing on his disgusting island, and now you want me to, as you say…_perch?_ Forget it. I'm going to tear you apart, you gross old geezer."

"P-p-p-p-p-PURCH!"

"Your screams will echo throughout these chintzy, sound-proofed walls."

"P-p-p-p-p…" Sean was practically palpitating over the crate by this point.

"For I am death. I will shred your soul to ribbons."

At that point everything happened at once.

Thinking that she heard her cue upon hearing "I am death," muffled through the closet door, Cheryl banged out of her hiding place, her mannequin over her shoulder and ready to strike.

Almost simultaneously, Jennifer leapt out of the crate upon the belief that she heard her cue (which was actually Christie's utterance of "I will shred your soul to ribbons"); the thick wood of the box altered the words stated. Fortunately, Sean's hands were shaking such that the crate lid merely knocked his blade away, and did not impale Jennifer.

Unfortunately, though, no survivor had accounted for Christie's quick reflexes. The weaker Willamettans could not match the Tecmo thrasheress' speed as she dove out of the way just as Jennifer let fly with her baking ingredients, the contents splattering all over hapless, allergic Cheryl. As the latter gasped in surprise and apprehension at her predicament, her eggshell-haired enemy stepped up, grasped Jennifer's wrist, and quickly and violently torqued it, tossing the poor Gorman head over heels onto her ample haunches.

"Ahh-CHOO!" belted out Cheryl, her face covered with flour and her sinuses now out of control. "Ahh-CHOO! Ahh-CHISS!"

"Sword Mannequin Bless You," said Sean unthinkingly.

"Thank you," said Cheryl.

"AAAAAAGH!"

Christie next aimed to take out the sultry sneezer, but turned abruptly at the sound of an aging old coot's pathetic yell. She dodged just in time to avoid Beth's painting coming down over her head, and the canvas instead split across the scalp of the beleaguered blonde that was now Cheryl. She dropped her mannequin, focusing instead on the flour and the frame.

Which made her easy prey for Christie's intended assault. Taking advantage, the ivory-maned assassin leapt past the opened crate, splayed open her arms in the deadly _she quan_ fighting formation, and let loose with five quick chops to her opponent's chest. It wasn't until the fifth chop that Christie finally broke through Cheryl's surgically enhanced built-in defenses, but the point was indeed driven home by the last blow and Cheryl was sent to the ground, still sneezing.

"Give me that JACKET!"

Before Christie could turn again, she found herself bound by Beth's brutal bear hug. The lady had snapped at last and would not stop till she snatched the coat she so obsessively sought. Christie writhed and wriggled as much as she could, but Beth held fast for several seconds.

"I'll…squeeze more than that…floozy over there sneezed," threatened the wrinkly warrior that was Beth Shrake. And she almost had Christie…almost.

In a flash, Christie lowered her beauteous body and raked open her arms, throwing off her opponent's balance and breaking her hug. Beth started to go flying…but not before snagging a sleeve of her adversary.

"What…get…get off!" Christie fought Beth's cloth-grip as hard as she could, but could not break it. Beth's clamp was solid, and could not be forced away.

Before she knew it, Christie was spun around and around…

…and a second later, only her legs were covered in blue flame.

As Beth went flying into a nearby wall and unconsciousness with the prize of Christie's jacket in her hands, Christie clasped her arms over her chest and Sean instantly converted to Christie-anity.

"My…God…Dess…" was all he could get out for the time being. (More or less hour or so being.)

"Hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm…a-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! A-HA-HA-HA-HA!" chortled Christie in basically the most fake way imaginable. "I like you, codger," she said. She then extended a hand invitingly towards Sean, notwithstanding her eminent exposure. "Come to me, fart!"

Christie's sexy yet condescending tone suddenly made something click within the kooked-out Keanen, and he realized at that moment that he had been, for the past several seconds, a Lapsed Cultist. The fury of a infinity of insane angels erupted within him, overcoming the effects of the previous, erect eruption he had experienced minutes ago.

"I shall return your faux boobs to the foul pervs that hath spawned them…"

With quick reflexes that shocked even a superhuman, superhomeless photographer, Sean suddenly dashed forward.

"…and PURGE this mall of men…of your tantalizing temptations!"

Waking wearily from a woozy reverie, Cheryl looked up just in time to watch her former nemesis plunge his ceremonial sword most ceremoniously into Christie's glamorous yet now aghast form. Unlike Frank West, who oddly flipped over and fell onto his head upon meeting with Sean's sword, Christie just went straight down, apparently not only defeated but deceased.

"W-w-wow, Sean," was all Cheryl could stammer out, not even noticing her momentary savior as he wiped some of the baking ingredients from her shoulders.

"I, too, am baffled at this divine release," echoed the old man. As he continued to deflour Cheryl, he looked again upon the seeming carcass of his adversary (with his sword still inserted), then to the impaled mannequin.

"Corpus Christie, indeed. I had…plans for you, Cheryl, my blonde beatitude. But it appears, now, that through our white-haired-harlot, I have found a replacement to serve as the object of my future beseeching."

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 7

ENCOUNTER EIGHTEEN: ADAM MACINTYRE, ALYSSA LAURENT, RONALD SHINER, AND BARBARA PATTERSON VERSUS AYANE

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, AL FRESCA PLAZA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 10:40AM

Glancing ruefully at the dish in his weighty hand, Ronald thought of all the wonderful times the two of them had together. Parting would be so bittersweet now, after he and the plate experienced so many helpings of yogurt in the food court leading up to this battle. But, desperate times and desperate measures and all that.

"Pull!"

So long, my passionately beloved snackware…

"PULL, I SAID, RONALD!!"

Sighing, Ronald tossed the dish out as forcefully as he could, much to the satisfaction of the sassy, sexy-as-hell yeller nearby.

WHSSSSSS—CRACK

"YES!" cried Alyssa ecstatically, hopping up and down with glee as she scored a hit on the makeshift clay pigeon with her favorite pistol. Sure, her buddies Brett and Jonathan had longer guns, and their stamina made them well-endowed enough to last all day and night. But she had the most skills, from being around the block a few times, and through this she could please her partners just as much, if not moreso.

Said partners now approached Alyssa as she leaned back against a wall between stores in the outdoor Al Fresca arena and took in all the slaughter that just occurred. She had heard that her fellow survivor Adam MacIntyre could be very busy with his small blue chainsaws, but no one was prepared for what he could do with the large red ones. Such was the clown's aptitude at handling saws on a regular basis that he could wield even these bigger ones two at a time, and boy did he ever wield them as he cut a swath through the swarm of monsters that overpopulated the outside plaza. Tubby Ronald, Timid Barbara, and the Ten (Thousand) that was Alyssa stood in abject shock and awe as Adam sawed through so many decomposed heads, hands, and haunches in the blink of a painted entertainer's eye. This manly display might have almost made Alyssa want the motley thirtysomething…if it weren't for the wacky costume and the afro wig and the way all that made look a bit paunchy. And the nature of his job.

After all, Adam was "just" a mall clown. Just like Frank West was "just" a journalist. And probably a down and out one at that, judging from how he looked.

She didn't like most clowns per se, to boot, seeing them as parodies of the crimson-curled queens that were redheads generally. She remembered reading graffiti once that read, "I always smile when I see a clown/but when I meet a redhead I want to frown" or something like that. Like she and Adam were linked somehow. _How disgusting,_ she thought.

"Are you sure that those are gonna help ya, Barbara?" asked Ronald to his chubby compadress, pointing to the parasol and fence that she scrounged up. "I heard our enemy's some kind of 'kumquatitchy' or something, like, a female ninja. It might not be enough."

Barbara placed most of her vast face in her hands as she started to sob, unaware of Ronald's misspeaking "I…I…I'm not inclined to fight…I just want to pr-protect myself…"

Before this cadaverous catastrophe had befallen Willamette, Barbara was renowned as a ruthless bond collector and enforceress in the area. "Bail Bonds Barbara" had always nabbed her man, or woman, as it were. She certainly had the brunt and the broadness of figure for it.

But now, after witnessing so many losing life and/or limb to this dead disaster, Bail Bonds suddenly softened, her iron resolve putrefying into pussyfooting pacifism. All Barbara wanted now was to shutter herself off from the sickening mockery of mankind that surrounded her. Quivering with fear, she cowered under the parasol she wrested from the grabbing hands of many undead with the last of her courage. In her hands she grabbed her portion of fence tightly, wishing the section of wood were much larger and longer than it was.

Ronald, meanwhile, regarded the woman with a smorgasbord of empathy and infatuation. He felt for her situation, as he himself was a bit afraid, and looked down on the woman who was once so fierce and fearsome in her work, so far fallen now. At the same time, however, he lusted after the survivor, wanting so badly to go from plowing the corpses to pushing the cushion that was Barbara Patterson. Dames like that Alyssa over there were hot per se, but way too wispy; not to toot his horn or anything, but Shiners could eat and enjoy at least three times much as normal folks, and Ronald needed someone who was so much more to satisfy his sexual appetite.

The survivor of superior size looked away from the cherub that made him a bit more chubby, wishing to find the others. He especially did not want that pistol-packing pantywaist to be messing with any more dishes of his than was needed. Ronald wished to salvage at least a couple of his dear wares after this battle, if possible. Squeezing the handle of his frying pan, he cursed and paced out across the plaza to look for the maroon-maned minx.

What he found, emerging from McHandy's, was a redhead indeed—but it wasn't Alyssa. Slapping out of the hardware store with his funny shoes was Adam MacIntrye, his garish light blue suit intact, his sharp light blue chainsaws in working order against a wall—and his bright red afro chopped down to a crew cut.

"What happened?!" blurted the biological boulder that was Ronald Shiner as Adam approached. Alyssa came up running from the other side of the fountain as the two men met up.

"I was…trying out some tricks with my new toys," explained the clown, thumbing behind him, "the big red tools they have at the Mickey H's back there, that I used to clear out the zombies. I did decently in throwing one up and down…but then I tried to juggle two—like I do with my baby blues—and I, uh…kinda cut myself a bit." He pointed to his new 'do. "Good thing the only red stuff that came out of my body was my hair."

"I'll say," said the stload of human tissue that was Ronald. "You think you're still up to this?"

"Yee-ha!...I mean, yeahh," said Adam, retrieving his aforementioned "baby blues" from a few feet away. "I'm ready to take on anything from killer clowns to nasty ass ninjas…or even…a bit of both."

"Bold words for an entertainer who abandoned his clown college!"

Four pairs of survivor eyes shot skyward as their anticipated opponent flipped out and towards them at not even a moment's notice. Barbara tucked most of herself under her parasol just in time as a purple rush of…something dropped onto, then immediately glanced off of, the top of her parasol. A split second later, the Willamettans were joined on the ground by their jumpy enemy.

She was a beautiful, bouncy lady ninja (just like any goddamn lady ninja), with follicles of the funkiest purple and eyes of the most robotic red.

She pointed defiantly towards Adam.

"You think you can just learn the ways of the _Klownoichi_ and leave without serving us?!" she spat in her native tongue.

"I don't owe you _shinobi_ sluts anything, Ayane," Adam shot back in Japanese, preparing his chainsaws in a battle stance. "I paid the fees to become what I've become. Go and leave us in peace."

The narcissistic assassin tossed her short hair a second and laughed scornfully. "Ha! For epochs and eons, the Japanese have worked to preserve the ancient art of female stealth clowning. It has been simultaneously held a deep secret in our society…yet has also influenced and trickled down into the furthest recesses of our culture. It is why all, from the _geisha_ to the _kabuki_, wear white makeup.

"It is why I wear my purple weave!" Ayane then doffed her perpetual purple wig a second to expose her true Sinead O'Connor form to all, then replaced it. Alyssa, Ronald, and Barbara just scratched their heads, having no idea what the heck was going on as they didn't know Japanese.

Ayane then continued: "You know our secret, Adam: that all Japanese gals—as noble and humble as they act and carry themselves—secretly wish to be clowns. I, among the thousands of such women, have made myself an outcast from my civilization, so that I could live that dream…so I could laugh, goof, and wear purple. You cannot be in possession of such knowledge without either becoming one of us or otherwise being assassinated."

"Becoming one of you…and losing my two best balloons in the process!" Adam ran his hands down his costume, past the red/yellow/green/blue literal balloons, to his figurative…natural balloons down below. "I've given you girls cash…and now you want castration. Forget it."

Ayane stared the other clown down with the coldest of cerise eyes. "Then you have made your decision, Adam MacIntyre. Time for your punishment."

She rolled forward to meet Adam just as her mortal enemy did the same. In a flash they were toe-to-oversized-shoe.

"Just so you know," added Ayane as she settled back into some kind of Mugen Tenshin fighting stance or whatever, "The daughter we supposedly had in Hokkaido—Madamimadam.

"She's not yours."

Adam was as cool as a squash in Seon's up to this point…but this last revelation set him off. "Oooohhhhhwwwoooowwwww!" he screamed, raring to chop up the calamitous kunoichi.

Unfortunately, the chainsawing clown was given to epilepsy when upset, and before he could tear into the tough girl with his wily weapons, he started shaking, then curling up into a ball and rolling uncontrollably. Ayane watched with the most incredulous of expressions as she saw her sworn foe somersaulting into oblivion.

BANG, BANG…BANG, BANG

She would have to tend to him in another second, though; in the meantime, there were bullets to dodge.

Ayane started spinning the instant she heard Alyssa's projectiles pounce out from her pistol. Four shots sailed harmlessly past the ninjette as she continued her impossible rotations and worked her way towards her attacker.

SMACK

Before the redoubtable redhead could fire a fifth time, Ayane laid into her forehands with a vicious backhand, knocking the weapon several feet away. Before Alyssa could even register this, Ayane struck out at her again.

SMACK SMACK

First a rising smack while jumping into the air, then a falling smack as Ayane came back to earth. The target of her ignominious assault received the reports in full, and staggered with pain and humiliation to the ground.

However, just as Ayane eyed Ronald and Barbara as her next marks, Alyssa jumped back to her feet, determined to go from smackee to smacker. She tried to at least slap the back of the ninja assassin's head before she could turn once more.

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK

"I'VE HAD IT!!" yelled Alyssa, catchphrasily, after her cheeks, now redder than her hair or dress, became mother to smack-quintuplets courtesy of Ayane.

The latter then grabbed the former in an attempt to do some kind of body throw…but Alyssa, with aggravation and anger releasing adrenalin within, resisted with arms outstretched, pressing back against Ayane like any garden-variety survivor wrestling against your typical zombie.

"Helllllp…Please, help me!" she pleaded to her portly partners as she fended off Ayane as much as she could. Alyssa's pleas fell upon deaf ears as far as both were concerned, however. Barbara, for one, was shielding herself from the cantankerous conflict by literally fencing herself off from the others—even though the fence was like one foot by one foot square.

Ronald, on the other hand, was fully attuned to the battle…but was as helpless as one under hypnosis. Well, it was sort of understandable; watching the two women tussle would make most men freeze with libido frothing.

For Ronald, however, it was a stimulation of another sort: the hungry, humongous human-plus could not look at the scarlet Alyssa and the violet Ayane without thinking of a bulk-size box of Strawberry/Grape Nerds.

And it was for this reason that the bodacious bloated boy could not move from his place in the plaza.

At last, though, the situation resolved itself as Ayane voluntary broke off from Alyssa, relinquishing a wish to throw her, and charged forward with an uppercutting smack—an "uppersmack," if you will—that sent the woman to the floor once more.

The redhead did not stay down, however, but rather rebounded off the ground, refusing to go down in such a shameful way. She looked over to the purple prowler, who was fixing to attack the other survivors…and chose to retreat for the time being.

Ayane, not far away, herself chose to whirl herself further into battle, spinning around for no random reason rather than running. She twirled toward Barbara next, hoping to flush the fatty out from her hiding place. "I'll try you on for size," she said as she spun on up towards the measly parasol-fence fort—then the ninja regarded her opponent's immense weight and reflected, "though I don't know if I'll succeed."

Ayane was answered with neither a whimper nor a quaver as Barbara burst out of her trappings with a sizeable red chainsaw in hand. The once-scared survivor was now through with her newfound anxiety. "It's time to collect, bitch."

The Al Fresca air filled with saw sparks all of a sudden as Ayane found herself dodging quicker and more ferocious blows from Barbara than she could have possibly faced from Adam. It was all she could do to avoid being slashed into sashimi as she spun backwards past Ronald, whose frying pan lifted upward in his hand as he watched his large love go to work.

Knowing full well that she could not evade the enormous Barbara forever, Ayane vaulted back into one of a myriad of ready ninja positions…then torpedoed forward, feet first, towards the barreling behemoth with all her might. To her delight, her legs plunged into the massive mass that was Barbara Patterson's prodigious stomach—and, four feet later, her feet reached the back end of the survivor's solar plexus, knocking the woman backward and out on the plaza cobblestones.

Ayane spun around randomly and gratuitously once more in victory for about fifteen seconds, overjoyed to take down someone so imposing. After this, she paused to wipe some sweat from her brow, proud of her feet's latest feat. Just as her wiping arm started to lower from her lovely, face, however…

"Let's see you handle this, Spinny!"

…the woman froze as she heard her arch enemy, who once made her back arch with copulative pleasure, begin a spin of his own. She turned just in time, her left arm still raised instinctively, as Adam rotated towards her with both blue saws extended.

She was too far and guarded from the man to experience a direct decapitation…

RRRRR—RRRRRAAASSSHHH

"YYYYYAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!"

…but not a disarmament.

Ayane looked down in horror as a portion of her purple personhood was forever disconnected. Before she could react any further…

SPPPPPANNNNNGGGGG—HSSSSSSSSSS

She reeled in pain once again as Ronald panned the ninja hard against her new wound with his fryer, which he heated up furiously after watching Ayane take down the gorilla of his dreams.

"Agh, agh, aaaaaaaaahhhhh!" Her knees almost buckled from the agony. She looked up again, anticipating another attack from Adam and Ronald.

But nothing came.

She watched as Adam held up a saw in Ronald's way, understanding the fat man's rage, yet also feeling his own deep-seated passion for the woman he left behind. As much as he thought he hated her, within Adam still harbored the most lust ever for the mauve Madame Butterfly he had abandoned.

Which was why he did naught but let her go as she struggled to her feet and hobbled away.

Ayane gurgled unintelligibly, clutching at her left stump, fortunately cauterized by Ronald's pan, as she worked her way along the plaza wall. This wasn't what life was supposed to be about! Churning chainsaws and flying frying pans! Life was supposed to be about punches, and kicks, and chops! And ninja clans, and betrayals by busty, harlot half-sisters! And finding a long lost lover who was Japanese, but somehow passed for German at one point! And volleyball vacations! And bikini collections!

And hordes of toolish fanboys from another dimension who helped her amass those bikini collections, by spending countless hours at the Zackasino.

It wasn't supposed to be this way!

Ayane did her best to steel herself as she stole further away, knowing that Adam's sentimentalist mercy may soon wane as his rage at finding his fatherhood lost would once again wax. She loved Madamimadam, she really did; but the girl was derived from the loins of Ein. The testes of Hayate.

Not the sac of MacIntyre.

The ninja huddled down behind the counter of the Colombian Roastmasters, wondering what to do next.

Then she saw a couple of orange juices and a "hunk of meat"—alias an abandoned arm—and knew what she had to do.

Imitating the scene in the 1999 film _Affliction_ where Nick Nolte extracted a tooth with alcohol and pliers, Ayane sucked it up, gripped and chugged an OJ, then bit down a horrific holler as she shucked the limb onto her stump.

A moment later she emerged from the café, the flannelled, muscled, male limb looking totally out of place on her left side…but at least she was whole again.

Kind of.

She looked back towards the place from which Adam and Ronald were coming and waited for them.

"Let's see you smack me around now, Yanni!"

Ayane flicked her eyes in the other direction as she saw Alyssa mispronouncing her name and rushing toward her with sickle in hand and bicycle between legs. She basically looked like Lance Armstrong's worst nightmare.

The assassin tried to settle into a fighting mode…but her new arm would not respond. It didn't slip off, as the limb was firmly attached by the bonds created from the frying pan's heat…but it wasn't a part of her, wasn't an extension of her body. Just an imitation of such.

She reeled as Alyssa wheeled closer, trying to adjust and compensate for her lopsided weight.

Then, just as the cycling sickler bore down on her…

SSSSSCRASH

"NERDS!!"

…Alyssa toppled to the ground with a faceful of plate as Ronald's last dish dashed her from her metal mount. Unfortunately for her, the huge horse of a man had snapped, and he liked strawberry more than grape. So he made his decision accordingly.

As Ronald heavily hovered over the knocked out Alyssa, seeing not a wondrous woman but rather half a box of Willy Wonka candy, Adam bounded out to assail Ayane one last time. Before he could strike once more with his saws, however, his target put him down with an abrupt backward flip kick that made him join the ladies on his team in unconsciousness.

"Looks like you're the loser this time," she sniffed snobbily, her unaffected arm casually waving Adam off as she looked over at Ronald. He wasn't in his right mind to submit to Ayane, but a few more quick chops by her obviated the problem.

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 8

ENCOUNTER NINETEEN: STEVEN CHAPMAN, ISABELA KEYES, JOSH MANNING, AND JAMES RAMSEY VERSUS ALPHA-152

(AND SPECIAL GUEST STARRING JADE RAYMOND)

(AS WELL AS ANOTHER SURPRISE APPEARANCE)

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, SEON'S FOOD AND STUFF,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 11:00AM

The meats, wines, and other chilled areas of the supermarket lay quiet for an extended spell, as if no one had reached the arena as of yet.

But nothing could be further from reality.

King salmons in the fish section were suddenly shuffled aside in their cold casing as the ice amongst them burst forth, then consolidated into a tall, standing block of frozen water.

Which, a second later, cracked, melting slightly—then shattered violently as its occupant…the force that brought it forth from the fish…took its true, humanoid form once again!

From the ashes of so much seafood on sale, Alpha-152 was resurrected!

The demon waved its aqueous, sensuous arms as it took in its rebirth. After reposing for so many years and tournaments in prisons of glass and steel, then being released by the evil DOATEC authorities to do battle with the female form from which she was based—the infatuating, yet also insincere, immodest, and downright irritating Kasumi—the clone was soundly defeated by her obnoxious original and reduced to so many atoms of dissociated H20.

However, La Colmilla—as now revealed to all by her true identity, Lei Fang—had utilized her hypnotic tai chi abilities to reassociate the many molecules that comprised Alpha…and, of course, subjected the synthetic seductress to her indomitable control. The mistressmind of the Willamette tournament took great pains to ensure that Alpha would keep composure—and so she set up the creature's fight to take place at Seon's Food and Stuff, where sufficient frigidity would be guaranteed. (Of course, the meat processing area underground might have been even better…but La Colmilla figured that, well, if Kasumi loved fish so much, as she did in her gay ass mermaid dream, maybe her clone would feel the same—and so she relegated the final boss of the fourth Dead or Alive tournament to the frozen fish section).

Alpha-152 leapt high into the air, surveying her supermarket surroundings…then floated slowly back down again. No survivors to be seen.

Was this going to be an easy forfeit for her?

BOOM

As if out of nowhere, Alpha was struck dead-center in her diaphanous chest by buckshot. She craned her neck in the direction where she felt it from—dead ahead, between the cash registers and the wines.

The shooter emerged from his crouching position behind the closest checkout to the end of the store.

"Lady, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to LEAVE MY STOOOOOORRRRRE!" yelled the hell of a man as he shucked another shell into his shotgun.

He stepped toward a cart full of all kinds of bladed implements as he did so.

"Ssssssssssssssssssssss," was all Alpha-152 could emit in response. She was not programmed to be able to talk…and being all made of water, she could probably only talk to and about fish, anyway.

But regardless, as the man aimed his weapon at the aquatic woman once again, he proclaimed, as if she had asked him, "Name's Steven…GROCERIEEEEEEES!"

Instantly Alpha started to approach, not even bothering to teleport, as she normally did, since she felt she could take this schlub down pretty quickly. Undaunted by the prospect of laying out a liquid lady, Steven, at the other end, pressed forward as well with shotgun and shopping cart, beginning to blast away as he bustled along.

BOOM BOOM BOOM

Alpha-152 continued forward, the shells stinging slightly as they passed through her, but hardly slowing her down. Soon enough she would reach her enemy and take him out…and she wouldn't even have to do her frequent, frustrating disappearing act.

But then, suddenly…

BLAM BLAM BLAM

The sounds of Steven's shots were combined with those of a crazy Cabezan chica, propelling forward on a motorcycle—then rumbling over an endcap to ride atop an aisle shelving—and firing her handgun all the way.

Even though Isabela Keyes's bullets passed through what passed for the brain area of Alpha, the moist monster still didn't show signs of slowing. However, the beautiful beast did exhibit a bit of confusion at being attacked by multiple sources.

"KEEP AT IT, STEVEN!" hollered Isa as she stopped her bike a second, apparently completely forgetting the fact that the store owner had held her hostage a couple of days back…or maybe just setting side that difference. "WE NEED TO PUT DOWN THIS _BRUJA DE AGUA HIJA DE PUTA_, PRONTO!"

Steven just shrugged, not knowing what the hell a "Brooma Day Aquafina Day Pootah" was, but at least he understood "pronto." As his pretty partner continued to empty the contents of her handgun into Alpha-152, the shopkeep gave his cart a hearty shove, then leapt onto the small basket just beyond the handles.

As the bladed conveyance continued to rattle along, Steven, balancing carefully atop it, then proceeded to unload a shebang of shells into the water demon as rapidly as he could, not unlike an ashen savior who just returned from a medieval melee against an army of darkness.

Consequently, many more blasts from both guns pelted into the fiend…but nothing was showing any sign of damage.

Not willing to give up for anything, Isabela pressed forward, riding farther down the aisle top toward Alpha-152.

And that was when the nonsolid devil decided to disappear.

Emerging directly in front of Isabela as the Hispanic hellion rocketed along, Alpha did not allow herself to be run down, but rather let loose with an abrupt reverse elbow that slammed the human woman off of her steel steed.

Barely blanching at the blow, however, Isabela resumed ratcheting his pistol into position, and fired away at Alpha, seemingly in slow motion, even as she flew backward through the air…

…and into the center of Steven's cart, not so much as scathed by the scythes and other knives within, much less impaled.

As soon as she hit the makeshift seat, Isabela, once again in the Seon's proprietor's clutches—but on better terms this time—began firing even more shots against the water woman.

And so the two survivors, synchronizing their attacks as best they could…kept at it against Alpha-152.

"Well, are we gonna go out there and help those two out at some point, or what?"

"Are you insane, James?" Josh Manning replied, holding his family's jewels close to his family jewels as he talked with his fellow survivor several aisles away. "I'm not gonna get my neck snapped by one of those briny biatch's kicks! You see how fast she moves?"

"But maybe there's something I can do with this—" James Ramsey said, holding up the excavator he gleaned from the cleaned-out Crislip's—"maybe if I got close enough to the thing, I could screw up whatever insides she has with it. I'd love to give it a shot."

"You know, you're the one who's crazy," Josh shot back. "I swear, first my family's business—Josh's Jewels, named after me, of course—goes to hell because of this whole zombie thing, and now I'm'a get slaughtered by some crazy demon douche after you make her water break!"

"What?!" asked James, furrowing his brow.

"No-nothing. Nevermind. Forget I said that last part. I'm just…a bit freaked out by all this"

"Mister…so are we all. So are we all. I swear, I know all about what you mean with 'one second it's like this' and then 'another second it's like that.' I was just on my way up to the Pac Northwest a couple of days ago, to go to a gaming convention at which Ubisoft—and the love of my young life—was supposed to appear…the jubilant, jocosity-inducing…"

"Aw, man, would you just cut it out with that 'Jade Raymond' crap?! My God, it's like she's the new Virgin Mary or something! Every time I turn around, it's like, everyone's so freaked and geeked out 'cause Jade Raymond made a statement about her upcoming project, or Jade Raymond made an appearance on G4…she is so overrated."

"Oh, come off it, Josh," retorted James, twisting his tool in his hands as his infatuatee invaded the back of his mind, "she's on her way to accomplishing a lot in her field…and I'm looking forward to _Assassin's Creed_ when it comes out." (Note: Keep in mind that DR takes place in 2006—Quillon42)

"_Assassin's Creed_ my ass. I tell you, if she were right here, just right here standing in the fruits section with us, I'd give her a piece of my mind…and have her live up to her name by taking some of these jades in my hands and…

"Whoa."

Josh stopped midsentence just after he splaying his hands open to show off some of his green gems…and just noticing the very same Jade Raymond walking right towards both men.

"Josh," said James, almost breathless, "hit me with that bag of pet food you got on the display over there—I think I'm seeing things. Things I kinda like actually…so on second thought, don't hit me."

Josh grumbled as he watched the successful producer get closer. He wasn't nearly as starstruck as his fellow Willamettan…but rather wrung his hands and addressed the alighting lady:

"Jade Raymond, you've got a lot of nerve showing your face around here again, you know?" he started.

"Again?" parroted James. "What…?"

"You knew I was trying to independently develop my own game and have it produced…how I had that concept about bumping off noble people during the Crusades…you took my idea!"

"I have no idea of what you're saying, with 'your idea,' Joshua," replied the jaunty Jade Raymond, crossing her arms as soon as she reached the other Js. "The game concept was my own thing all along."

"That's a load of corpsecrap!" Josh shouted back. "You knew that I came up with _Murderer's Beliefs_ long, long ago. You just took it, changed a couple of things—no wait, just one thing: the _title_—and made it yours!"

"Ha," spat the object of Josh's odium, "as if I would steal any dumbass ideas like _Murderer's Beliefs_ from a lowly…jeweler such as yourself."

Josh threw down all of his jewels in anger at this. "Now you listen to me…Jade Raymond," he said, once again saying both her first name and last name ritualistically, as if she were Charlie Brown, or any superstar in the WWF…excuse me, I mean WWE. (So anal.) "This is the most infuriating thing I have experienced since I came up with the idea of an epic thirteen-part RPG at the age of five, involving overwrought, melodramatic, androgynous characters—my beloved _Anal Pansies_ project—and then SquareSoft stole that from me and made trillions off of it! I won't stand another minute of…AGH!"

Suddenly Josh yelped in horror as Jade Raymond came forward with a small, steel, phallic-looking thing that looked rather sharp and deadly. He screamed again as she nearly reached and penetrated him with the thing…

…then was shunted backward as several can drinks met with her slender frame.

"NO, JADE RAYMOND!!" cried James hoarsely as he cried man tears while flinging the sodas, "I CAN'T HAVE YOU HURTING MY BEST BUDDY AND CO-SURVIVOR!"

You cannot imagine how hard James was taking this—and how hard James _was_—at the moment.

"Ungh!" yelled Jade Raymond as she plopped backward, into a display of grapefruits. Several yellow spheres flew into the air as she collided with the setup.

After the dust cleared, James and Josh looked up from arms that covered their eyes and approached the downed demigoddess of game production.

"Now," said Josh, seething with indignation, "tell me what that was all about."

The woman's mouth was full of half-eaten grapefruit that James had started a little bit ago. Although said James was riding an emotional rollercoaster right now at seeing the woman of his dreams attack one of his best friends, he couldn't help but think, in some part of his psyche, _I just shared a grapefruit with Jade Raymond!_

The woman tried to work through the fruit as she uttered something:

"Ehh hemm ehh hashashim," she said.

"…Come again?" barked Josh, as he moved closer to his sworn enemy.

Jade Raymond managed to spit out a bit of grapefruit. "Ehh mmm a hashashim," she seemingly repeated.

"Wait a second." Josh walked over, swung his hand wide to move around the mole on her cheek, and plucked out the remainder of fruit in her mouth. "Let's try that one more time."

The lady on the display nodded as she breathed more freely. "I am a hashashim."

"Damn it, I thought I got all the grapefruit out…!"

"No, Joshua, hashashim! Hashashim!" shouted Jade Raymond. "It's ancient tongue for 'assassin!' I did a bit more research than you in creating _my_ game, it seems!"

Josh and James could say nothing to this, continuing to fail to understand.

The woman before them took in a few more breaths, then continued herself: "I was sent here by Ubisoft to take out Inafune. I thought I could stop here along the way and take care of you on the same trip."

The survivors couldn't believe what they were hearing. Especially James. Here she was…the woman of his dreams…the woman whose name sort of sounded like his…the one with whom he so wanted to share the wedding invitation…_James Ramsey and Jade Raymond_ _cordially invite you_…and here she was, talking about assassinating his creator.

Keiji "the Killa" Inafune.

Josh bent down to pick up as many jades as he could to use against the woman while James did his best to restrain him.

Steven had never beheld water so pure and unadulterated.

He had no choice but to shelve the shotgun in his sweating hands as the lady in the water—really lady made from water—came closer. She had just teleported in behind him, behind his cart, a second ago, and he was all ready to bust out with the buckshot again when she sidled up so slinkily and sexily.

The shopkeeper had spent his entire adult life minding the market…and the messes of others that were made within. So many spills…puddles…cleanups that he faced. It almost became a fetish after a while to see them lying around, day after day.

What he saw up close was not Alpha-152, the enemy made from aqua…but rather, one huge…entrancing…enticing…

….cleanup.

The Alpha-Female of all cleanups.

And Steven Chapman was in love.

"Come to me…RIGHT NOW!" he boomed manically, failing to heed Isabela's distant "NO!" as he collapsed in the coquettish cleanup's arms, enveloped in euphoric emotion.

In the ensuing seconds, Steven went from frenching to fornicating with the being built 100 of water. "YES! YES! YES! I WILL ALLOW PROCREATION IN MY STOOOOOOOORE!!

Alpha-152 allowed the poor, piddling man another instant or so of pleasure in her puddle of love…then abruptly disengaged, grabbed his head with her legs, and flipped him over, socking him on the scalp with enough blows to send him into a fantasy land where he could continue to copulate in his own deranged dreams.

"That's it, _maricon del mar!_"

Before the demon could turn and teleport once more, Isabela moved in quickly and slapped her full on the posterior with both hands. If the thing could think like a human, she might have thought _Ugh, not more foreplay…_but instead it reacted by twisting around…

…then falling down.

Sighing in relief heavily, Isabela staggered against a shelving and allowed herself to sit down. Thank God she was so good with impromptu cures and other measures…that zombie perfume she came up with…the idea she had for a temporary zombie retarding shot, using cold spray, film developing solution, and other sundry items…

…And now the Zombie Ben-Gay she just concocted, using just condiments, canned sauce, and a bit of acid from some camera batteries she borrowed from Frank back in the security area.

Fortunately, the cream she just invented didn't just incapacitate zombies…it worked on other monsters as well.

Including this water witch here.

Nonetheless, Isabela rose back to her feet a minute later, watching the prone figure of Alpha-152 intently. Ready to strike out again if the need arose, this time with a container of cooking oil.

Probably wouldn't mix so well with water.

"Isa! Honey!"

The woman turned her head to see who was calling.

"_Frank!_"

She didn't have to run far, as sure enough, the mendicant mall master himself—Frank West—emerged and rushed toward her. The two met in a passionate embrace…then a passionate kiss, much more impassioned than any mojo Steven could work with the cleanup of his life and libido.

"What are you doing here, Frank?" Isabela asked. "Your round in the tournament…"

"…Isn't for another forty minutes or so. I just wanted to swing by…I knew I couldn't help out here, or else I'd be disqualified. But I wanted to lend some moral support at least. If not, um…_manly_ support."

The Santa Cabezan cocked an eyebrow at her love's brazen bravado. "Oh, Frank," she said finally after many more seconds, "I'm just glad to see you…"

WHISK

She then stopped all of sudden, knowing full well what she just heard. Isabela spun around to look at the place where Steven lay knocked out.

Alpha-152 was gone.

WHISK

She turned around…

…and found the foul adversary standing right behind Frank…

…ready to grab him and deliver her devastating laser move, which ordinarily consisted of her passing her hand over her opponent's chest, then blasting away…

…but for some reason, this time Alpha aimed lower.

Between the man's legs.

"NOOOOOO FRAAAAANK!"

In the space of the expiration of a second Isabela dove forward, pushing Frank West out of the way…

…and substituting her groin for his own.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—SHBLASSSSSSSTTTTT

Isabela just stood there for an instant, trying to register all the agony as Frank rebounded from the shove and looked back at her in shock.

Then she buckled, falling backward…

…knocking over her container of cooking oil as she fell.

Alpha-152 didn't teleport in time as first her feet, then her legs, then her entire body became engulfed in the Wesson of death. She shook, then vibrated, then thundered…

…then splashed all over Frank as she exploded, dying once more.

Frank took a second to realize all that was occurring. Watching a water woman self-destructing seemingly. Seeing the lady he adored getting shot in the crotch with a laser beam.

Then:

"Bleah, bleah…ISABELA!" he cried, as he spit out some of the oily mixture in his mouth, then rushed over to help his Latin lover. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry…"

"Nnh! Nnh!" was all the woman could manage at the moment. Blood bubbled from her mouth as she apparently lay in state.

"Isabela…you're gonna be okay…" Frank pleaded, rubbing her forehead tenderly. "Th-there's a first aid kit in the pharmacy nearby…just need to spread its contents over your…you know, and you should be just fine…"

"Frank!" whispered Isabela, somewhat audible…but not really. "You need to listen to me."

"Anything, Isa…please, tell me."

"You need to fight this…_concha_ known as La Colmilla," gasped the terrific ex-terrorist, "and send her…back to the Hell that is Tecmo. For me."

"Of course, my darling, of course…"

"Urrhhherhherhhhherhheuhhh…"

"Isabela, I'm losing you! I'm losing you! Speak to me! Damn it!"

She was going somewhere between shock and delirium, and Frank West well knew it.

"Frank!" repeated Isabela, coming back for a miraculous second. She placed her hand on his face, her eyes rolling back a bit. "I love…

"I love…"

Then she passed out.

"EERRREEEEEEAAAAAARGH!"

Frank's anguished cry—which, in another reality, would have sounded from atop a tank after defeating an insane soldier—and which sounded equally unconvincing in both universes—reverberated through Seon's Food and Stuff for a pregnant moment.

The man sat there catatonically, convulsing with a vile mixture of dismay and rage, certain that his love was no longer alive…certain that she was about to tell him that she loved him…at last…

…then suddenly…

…a voice boomed over the public address system.

"FRANK WEST!"

The man looked up to the ceiling of Seon's.

"WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT FROM ME RIGHT NOW, YOU PIXILATED PILE OF PONCE!!" he belted out.

"I AM HERE TO INFORM YOU, FIRST, THAT DESPITE YOUR LOVER'S DESTRUCTION OF ALPHA-152, THE VICTORY OF THIS MATCH STILL BELONGS TO US. ALPHA WAS THE FIRST TO STRIKE THE FINISHING BLOW, AND ISABELA'S COUNTERATTACK WAS MERELY INCIDENTAL AND CAME FAR TOO LATE."

"YOU INSIDIOUS, INVIDIOUS IMM…"

Frank was stuck a second, searching for another word to rhyme with "insidious" and "invidious."

"SILENCE! THE MATCH IS OURS!" shouted the voice from beyond.

"I AM ADDRESSING YOU ALSO TO REMIND YOU THAT WHEN—AND NOT IF—THE NEXT MATCH IS WON BY OUR SIDE AS WELL, YOU ARE TO MEET ME AT NO LATER THAN TWENTY MINUTES TO NOON, WITH YOUR TEAMMATES, TO SETTLE THIS MATTER ONCE AND FOR ALL. LA COLMILLA HAS SPOKEN."

CLICK

Frank continued sitting/kneeling in his broken formation, Isabela's limp form cradled in his arms. Thousands of yells of angst echoed through his mind, his heart, his soul. He could hear them all at once, and one at a time. Isabela…Isabela…

"JADE RAYMOND!"

Huh?

"I'LL GET YOU SOMEDAY!" cried a voice not far away, as Frank looked up from his self-pity a second to see a young white man walking off forcefully with a young black man in his arms. "JADE RAYMOND! JA…JADE RAYMOND! JADE RAYMOND!"

Unbeknownst to Frank, the bescreamed Jade Raymond was shackled to a raw meat display, rendered immobile by handcuffs that James had found on a prone police officer who was once zombified but then ground to the ground by Steven's weapon cart.

Josh was through with the woman, as far as James was concerned…but James himself was just getting started.

Unbeknownst to Frank also, his mami, his mistress…Isabela Keyes…was not indeed dead, but merely unconscious. The laser she sustained had cauterized and closed the wound as soon as it was opened, so she would not even suffer massive blood loss. Still, some medical attention might be necessary soon.

Unbeknownst to Frank in addition, the woman, in her delirious condition, was not about to say "I love you," but rather "I love empanadas"…but he at least didn't have to know that.

Regardless of it all, Frank gently set down his paragon of paramours and looked up to the smeared ceiling of Seon's. "La Colmilla…Lei Fang," he grumbled with the fiercest of conviction.

"I hope you're ready…

"for _Le Frank._"

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 9

ENCOUNTER TWENTY: CLETUS SAMSON, JONATHAN PICARDSEN, BRETT STYLES, AND BROCK MASON VERSUS SPARTAN-458

(AND SPECIAL GUEST STARRING MIRANDA COSGROVE)

(AS WELL OTHER SURPRISE APPEARANCES)

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, DESERTED DRAINAGE AREA,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 11:20AM

The barren scape of wasteland that comprised the arena for the next battle came off to Nicole-458 as a bit lacking in inspiration. This didn't begin to approach the fantastical fairways and technological terrariums through which she regularly coursed and confronted contumacious covenanters.

Like the 457 Nicoles before her, Miss 458 was a brawler, a pugilist…but a princess within as well. Underneath all the emerald armors, she enjoyed being showered with generous gifts and lavish luxuries…when she wasn't fighting so many unfriendlies along with her fellow Spartans.

She'd been a visitor to the 'verse of Tecmo for only so long, when all of a sudden she found herself in the thrall of that ignoble Lei Fang—known as La Colmilla at present—who managed to hypnotize her and now make her a special character in the Capcom universe as well. Even Nicole's gold visor—which completely obscured her eyes, face…really anything that would make her appear more than humanoid—couldn't

keep her from falling victim to the tournament leader's wiles.

_Oh, to be back with the other Spartans,_ she thought to herself, as she checked her suit and its capabilities for the coming battle. To be hanging again with Vinh-30, or maybe Grace-93…going shopping for matching boots, then shooting some Kig-yars to pass the time…but then also to gossip about that slut Holly-G003. Could you believe she did it: she went and got those catalytic thyroid implants! With that flat Mark IV ass she has, ain't gonna do her no good anyhow. But the way William-43 and Malcom-59 drooled! It was a sin.

And then the very thought of Isaac-39…he was quite the sweetheart, won over her alloy-protected heart right well, he did. Memories of them cavorting, fooling around…drowning in a whirlpool of intimacy. A lucky bystander might have gotten an eyeful to see two sets of green Mjolnirs rolling around and around, his gloved hands fondly fondling her carbide ceramic ossification, her fingers tensing at the sensation of his superconducting fibrification of neural dendrites.

But then she betrayed herself, at the peak of her pleasurable pique:

"KURT-51!"

She called out the wrong name…

…again.

Maybe it was better that Nicole were here, now, instead of back home.

She stood in place to make sure her energy was fully recovered, then peeked around the corner she used for cover to scope out her enemies.

_Hmm…haven't seen humans so naked in…forever, actually,_ she thought. That bare fact (pun intended) might have even made her aroused if the four she focused upon weren't so…let's say…unphotogenic. _A…caveman wearing loud, cheap duds from the Appalachians; a young, near skinhead-lookin' fella who's kinda cute, but comes off like he got his clothes from an ancient military surplus thrift store; a guy all in black who looks like a Caucasian version of that "Jibber Jabber" guy from the "A-Team" re-runs that have been on for millennia; and a more respectable soldier who sort of remotely resembles Tobin Bell from Saw 3,659,725…_

BOOOOOM

"Agh!" cried Nicole-458 through her suit, as she tumbled out from her hiding place. She'd underestimated her quarry.

They'd sighted her!

"Switch to automatic control," Brock instructed his automated military monstrosity as he stood alongside its turret. He leapt off the vehicle as it rolled towards the border of the arena and parked itself quietly.

"Whar' ye doin, boy?" barked Cletus raucously as he chucked up his shotgun for the coming conflict. After belching for a spell, he continued: "We ain' got no idea what we up 'ginst, and yer all but puttin 'way our best guns n' brass thit we've got!"

"We've got enough firepower on our side for the time being," spoke up Jonathan, priming his own boomstick and aiming out to where the sexy Spartan lay. "We'll go back to the tank if it's necessary."

"J-Pic's right," said Brett, as he aimed his machinegun in time, "Let's give this green knight all we've got, with what we're packing!"

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

RATATATATATATATATATATATATATAT

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

_So much for the martial arts that Bayman taught me in Tecmoland,_ Nicole said to herself as she flipped away from the projectiles punching into the ground where she once was a second ago. She pumped up against a steel support around a corner and tried to figure how she could best get the drop on her foes.

La Colmilla had ordered that those on the Tecmo side weren't to use weapons against the Capcom survivors…even if the odds were so stacked against the impossibly idealized invaders as they were at present.

But that didn't mean that Spartan-458 didn't bring any armaments with her…

The Mjolnired maiden reached into the back of her suit and whipped out the first futuristic firearm that came to mind.

"Miss Miranda, it is my dearest hope that you are feeling better as of now."

"Yes, Bell, I'm feeling fine. Thank you for asking. Though I told you the same thing the last dozen times or so."

"Oh, Miss Miranda…"

And so it went on like this as the precocious, pretentious Miranda Cosgrove was eagerly escorted through the treacherous tank area by her new personal assistant, Drake Bell. Although it was 2006, and the sulky starlet wouldn't take the fore in her sickeningly saccharine series _iCarly_ for another year, the shoe had most definitively gone onto the other foot regarding who was boss on the set of the Nickelodeon hit _Drake and Josh_. Miranda'd already used her irresistible influence on the Nick network to send costar Josh Peck on a diet wherein he'd lost 4673647365873658723678 pounds…and had now curbed the other man on the marquee to be her ever-serving, ever-obsequious lapdog.

Although only thirteen, Miranda was well on her way to having authored (or having arranged a ghostwriting) of her (first) autobiography and self-help book, _iCares_. When, and not if, _iCarly_ was a raging success to teen sheep all across the various universes, she would supplement the show, and her infinitely-increasing income, with vast sales of a book that would chronicle her adventures through various alternate realities, and give new-age advice on how to deal with certain situations and predicaments in interdimensional travel. After all, she'd already had plans to make a show about a webcast she would host; why not take it several steps further by expanding into other worlds?

"Take my forays into the various plazas here, Bell, and make them as heroic as possible," she ordered her has-been-to-be assistant.

"Yes, Miss Miranda, ma'am," blubbered poor, career-destitute Drake. "I would humbly advise that you do be careful of those volleys of bullets and shells that are exploding all about us, for your sake, of course, and not mine. Oh…what of my writing of your most unfortunate bout of salmonella in the Food Court?"

"Take that and represent it as a…'tortured chapter in the course of my spiritual, interdimensional journey,' if you will," she replied. "Yes, all my fans will eat that up readily…it was so 'tortured'…such a tortured episode."

"Yes, of course, Miss…'tortured.'" Already a favorite adjective of so many self-absorbed bloggers and virtual tabloids like Time and Newsweek, Miranda knew just how to have her flock identify with and thus idolize her accordingly.

But what the seemingly omniscient Miranda Cosgrove did not know was that the supposed salmonella she experienced at her early lunch was not food poisoning at all…but rather consumption of a special sort of pizza. Not the uncooked kind, or the spoiled sort. No, this was one that a photojournalist steeped in poverty had placed in a microwave on his way through the Park View…and had forgotten to take out. This was the nastiest tomato pie of all…

…A gamma pizza.

And Miranda had scarfed it.

"I must continue with my heroics, if I am to become all the more adored by the populaces across the multiverse," she said to her assistant. "I must find something for which tales will be told across ages and eras…a person in distress, in grave danger…someone who needs me to reach out for them…someone in a time of great peril…"

Miranda scoured the scape with her eyes, searching for someone whom she could help amidst the shotgunfire and machinegun milling that was going on.

"…Someone like _her._"

The person to whom the saucy star was pointing was no Mjolnir-wearing maiden from millennia ahead…

…but rather, a young girl who was resting against the side of a station-wagon that had taken a wrong turn.

A young girl who was homesick, and sad, and wishing only to be home with her mommy, who was catching a nap inside of the vehicle.

A young girl who was about to become the unwitting target of a test blast by a sadistic, ruthless, ogre of a US Army general.

"Get that thing away from her, you effed-up _bastard!_" yelled Nicole-458 as she used the brunt of her armor to slam into the side of Brock's tank.

SSS-BOOOOOM

The Halo heroine had endured countless shots from Jonathan, Brett, and Cletus as she ran to deflect the army asswipe from firing upon the innocent humans in the jalopy across the arena. Thank God, the impact of her suit had ruined the artillery's aim, and had instead blasted into the ground near to the car, creating a crude trench.

SSS-CLUNNNK

"Uggh!" yelped Nicole as she was suddenly thrown off her metal feet by the swing of the neck of the tank's cannon.

"That oughta keep you out of my hair for a while," sneered Brock at the warrior woman from inside his vehicle. As he was bald, of course, he meant another kind of hair, on which we really don't need to dwell right now.

Anyway, Brock cocked up his nerve and resumed taking aim against the defenseless station wagon from far off.

"It's going to fire again, Bell!" shouted Miranda Cosgrove as she ran to get the little girl. "I've got to get my photo op! Got to get myself in the best light possible…"

Damn it! she thought to herself as she nearly reached the wagon, he didn't reload his camera at the last plaza, did he? I'll have to fire his ass when we get out of this…get Peck to replace him, chop-chop.

Unbeknownst to soon-to-be-Carly, someone had just snapped her heroic run to the wagon…and would be taking many more shots in the ensuing seconds, each of which earning him four-figure points and orange circles classified under "Drama."

"Fannnnn-tas-tic," said the shrouded, shabbily-dressed figure.

"You've got to get out of here…ma'am! Little girl!" screamed Miranda to the child and the woman inside the car. "I've got to get you to safety!"

"Wha…who…" the little girl started. "Miranda-Freakin-Cosgrove?"

"Yeah…there's no time!" shouted said Freakin'-Cosgrove, as adrenalin and an unquenchable thirst for recognition fueled her efforts to drag the girl by one arm and the woman by the other. "The ditch!"

With an abrupt heave, Miranda tossed the two into the groove in the ground made by the terrible tank.

She then tensed herself for her own haughty hop into the trench along with them, making sure she showed some serious stuff in the process…for the all the peds out there.

But then, in that critical second in which she was flexin' and flashin'…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!"

Caught in the blast of the overly dramatic explosion that was Brock's last salvo, Miranda Cosgrove became bombarded with all kinds of concussive energy and other…crap like that. Her frail, famous form fell into the ditch to accompany the graciously alive mother and child that she had just saved.

"Mawmmy," said the little girl as Miranda's body fell near them, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Dakota, dear," replied the woman, known to many fellow Willamettans as Connie. "You're not hurt, yourself, are you?"

"No, Mawmmy…but that's more than I can say for that lump'a chump change over there." She pointed over to her saccharine savior, who lay rumpled and unconscious.

For the moment.

"Your luck just ran out, boys," bluffed Nicole-458 as she leapt quickly all around the arena, praying that her enemies' ammo could "run out" at some point as well. How was she to take any of them down, if they could blast her (even considering her armor) at any range?

"I'm'a blow yer robot boxy ass to kingdom come, lady!" griped Cletus as he belted away with both barrels, missing all the time.

"You'll tire at some point, missy," chided and chimed in Jonathan, reloading his weapon. "And when y'do, we'll be there to take you down and end this tourney."

Brett said nothing, but just continued to fire away with his automatic. Nicole noted how primitive the machinegun was compared to her own weaponry…but she still held her own hand in terms of whipping out her own weapons at the moment, having sheathed the firearm she took out while in hiding. She would evade disqualification and take a bullet for La Colmilla, if it meant that the Tecmoers could get a shot at still winning this thing.

Brock said nothing as well, observing his enemy…admiring. Brock was a man whose senses and tastes had advanced, through the battlefield…had advanced far beyond those of modern man. He desired the Spartan for her prowess in avoiding the attacks of the other men…desired her nimbleness, as well as her resourcefulness in baiting them to fire again and again, in the hopes that they would deplete their munitions in vain. By then, he knew, the woman would have accomplished her quest to run.

Her quest to hide.

For the purpose of striking back, at a moment of her choosing.

But most of all, Brock desired her…physically, somehow.

In the centuries to come, man's taste for woman would further develop, as it had developed before…from the time of the Vikings, where the plump and portly female was the most wanted…to the time of today, where the Kate Mosses and other such sticks represented the feminine ideal…to the time of a sort of Norsemen different from the Vikings—the Mjolnir, where it wasn't a question of thin or thick, but rather the mark of the armor that was worn, and what enhancements were added.

Sitting in his tank, Brock lusted, as did so many number-suffixed-Spartans of tomorrow, after the curvilicious concoction that was Nicole-458. The voluptuous thrust of the sexless metal hips…the torquing of the neuter steel thighs as the goddess glided through the air…the brilliance of the lovely, golden, everyperson faceplate…

Brock didn't even think about what was inside the armor. He loved the Spartan just the way she was.

BUM BOM BUM BOM BUM BOM BUM BOM…

Brock was shocked out of his euphoric trance as he suddenly heard the thunder of inexplicable tympanis from the trench his tank created. He looked through his machine's visuals to see the source of the sound.

As a matter of fact, so did Nicole and all the schmoes that were futilely firing at her.

From the depths of the ditch emerged an enormous arm, colored somewhere between green and gray, as if its creator (or the author) couldn't decide between the two hues.

The arm was then followed by its owner, headed off by ragged black hair and vicious yellow eyes.

Before all who observed could take in any more, the seeming monster leapt high into the air, and nothing more of her ghastly form could be measured before she landed full force amongst all of the arena combatants, causing them to dive for abrupt cover.

"RRRRREEEAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!" bellowed the new, awful creature.

"Wh-what is that?!" yelped Connie from her hiding place, astounded at the frightening figure who was once the unconscious "chump change" just seconds ago.

"It's…it's some kind of…hulking…hulk…hulk…" Dakota was not dubbing the monster a "hulk" per se, but rather was trying to get out the same adjective over and over…so shocked was she at the sight.

And said monster, having heard the attempt at the adjectives, synthesized the words with her own conception of what she really was:

The manifestation of Miranda Cosgrove's own ugly ambition, borne out fully into the light.

"AAAAARRRRAAAAARRRRRGGGHHHH—RRAAAAAAAARRRGGH!" exclaimed the creature, scaring everyone into involuntary ululation and urination.

Then, as everyone lay down, with hands and/or arms over their eyes:

"hulCarly NOT KNOW WHERE hulCarly IS…BUT hulCarly WILL SMASH!"

"Yeep!" peeped Drake Bell from afar, tossing his clipboard over his shoulder and abandoning his mistress. Let Josh Peck have his job; to hell with it!

"YAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!" yelled the horrible hulCarly again as she stalked toward those who she felt had threatened her safety…and her stardom. "hulCarly WILL NOT LET WEAKLING SURVIVORS GET IN hulCarly's WAY! AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!"

"Screw this, I ain't gonna die cowerin' and cringin'!" gritted Jonathan, taking up his shotgun. "I'm gonna die takin' a shot at this thing!" With the utmost of his guts, the young survivalist ran to the monster, took aim, and fired point blank basically.

BOOM BOOM

The creature, thoroughly unaffected, just looked at Jonathan as if he were a pesky housefly. "hulCarly NOT HURT BY GUN OF ARMY NAVY SURPLUS GUY! BUT hulCarly WILL SMASH ARMY NAVY SURPLUS GUY FOR GETTING IN hulCarly's WAY TO FAME AND FORTUNE!"

Raising her fists above her head, the horrific hulCarly rared to bring all hell down on the possible pulpee that was Jonathan Picardsen.

"NO!"

"RRRRRAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!—UHH?"

Just as the hulCarly brought her fists down on the place where Jonathan was just standing, the seemingly doomed survivor was tackled out of doom's way by Spartan-458.

As the man shook out his cobwebs a second later and got to his feet, he started to thank her profusely. "Th-thank you, Miss, much obli—oof!"

Before the man could even deliver his gush of gratitude, however, the Spartan stamped on the man's foot, then kneed him hard in the midsection, sending him into unconsciousness rather quickly. "Hostile down," she said, to no one in particular.

Regardless of how fubared the situation had just become, Nicole-458 was determined to rack up her victory for Tecmo…she wouldn't even let this newfound monster do her dirty work for her.

Next up to bat was Brett Styles, as he shouldered his machinegun to fire at the lumbering thing approaching him.

RATATATATATATATATATATAT

"WHY DOES WHITE MISTER T FIRE AT hulCarly?! WHITE MISTER T DOES NOT UNDERSTAND HE CANNOT HURT hulCarly!! hulCarly HATES WHITE MISTER T AND HIS PASSE POSER MOHAWK!!"

And with that, the horrid hulCarly aimed a haymaker at the still-shooting Brett, who was oblivious in his bloodthirsty fever to the fact that his bullets weren't affecting the hulCarly any.

But again…

"RRRRRAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHH—AAAAARRRGGGHHH! WHITE MISTER T, WHO CRAMPS hulCarly's STYLE AND SENSE OF FASHION, IS PUSHED OUT OF hulCarly's WAY! AAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!"

And then, again, before Brett could fully recover, Spartan-458 attacked, generating some surge of energy from one fist that arced upward in an uppercut, knocking out the misnamed "Styles" rather quickly.

"This is getting kinda old," Nicole thought aloud to herself, "But any way I can get the point. I'll take it."

"So…Dakota," started Frank West, taking out his notepad for the first time in at least seventy-two hours, to actually conduct an interview of a survivor. All the so-called "scoops" he unearthed in the past few days were really just thinly-veiled rescues and nothing more. Not unlike Miranda Cosgrove, Frank himself wasn't honestly trying to save others…he just wanted to further his career.

And yet, frustratingly…there were so many opportunities, with all the survivors, and those "cases" involving the Santa Cabezans and all…that he didn't even get to take five minutes to question a single person.

But at least here he was, now.

"Yeah?" said the little girl, impatiently, in the depths of the ditch.

"How do you feel about being rescued by teen idol Miranda Cosgrove? Are you…grateful? Starstruck? Hoping to still get an autograph, despite her…change?"

Frank was scribbling away before the girl even responded.

"Who…me?" said Dakota, arching an incredulous eyebrow. "Hell no. What do I look like, a friggin moron?"

"Wh…whaddaya mean? All the kids're…crazy about Miranda. She's, like, the new…messiah, basically! Don't you think that your reply is a little…eh…extreme?"

"Extreme?! Look, Mr. West. Mawmmy and I have fended for ourselves these past few days on nothing but goddamn Hamburger Fiefdom takeout crud. We've lived on the tough streets of Willamette all our lives. I read the blogs and the news bites on that little jerk. She's gonna do a show next year where she shacks up in an ivory tower in Seattle…an ivory space needle, if you will…and that's supposed to _reach_ someone like me? The fk am I supposed to relate to that?"

Frank just looked at Dakota. For once, he had nothing to say.

"She's off doing her masturbatory 'Megan' schtick right now on _Drake and Josh_, and then she'll have her own thing. And then she'll be in movies, and then she'll cut an album, and then she'll be as huge and hatable as that…Fanning twit, after whom _I'm_ named…damn you, Mawmmy!"

Connie cringed from across the ditch.

"The bottom line is this: Miranda Cosgrove is an out-of-touch Hollywood ho, and I'm doing all I can in this literal craphole I'm in right now. That is all. Thank you for your time, sir. From what I hear, you'd better get your homeless ass to the last fight with that…'La Cornea' chick or whatever, 'cause it looks over there like Iron Balls Betty's getting the upper hand."

Indeed, said "Iron Balls"—Spartan-458—had downed three of her four intended foes…Jonathan, Brett, and now Cletus. The last she had saved from the hulCarly, of course, then shunted him to the ground quickly with a shoulder throw…but not before the man had thrown down his shotgun and tossed a weird-looking…wine bottle, of some sort, to the hulking starlet on steroids.

"Hit…hit 'er with the moonshine, I did," Cletus cackled triumphantly as he slipped into oblivion. "Th…the nutrient…booze…"

Unknown to Nicole, Brock, the hulCarly, and all others present, Cletus was not just any Samson, but had pertained to the famed Samson clan which had by now spanned many generations as well as multiple realities. The same family that included Doctor Leonard Samson, who had created the infamous "nutrient bath" that separated Bruce Banner and the Incredible Hulk into two separate beings.

As it turned out, the formula…or recipe, as it were…for the nutrient bath has been passed down through many a Samson in various worlds. Cletus's specialty was regular, plain old wines of yore…but he took the time to live up to the family name, and made a batch of special Samson moonshine in his own "nutrient bathtub." Just in case.

And that case came up right now, as the greatest threat to Willamette had shifted in the past several minutes from a monster named Carlito to another beast named Carly.

hulCarly.

"GURGLE GURGLE GURGLE GURGLE GURGLE AHHHHHH! hulCarly NOT KNOW WHAT DUKES OF HAZZARD REJECT GIVE TO hulCarly…BUT hulCarly LIKE CRAZY DRINK!! hulCarly FEEL A BIT DIZZY…AND GIDDY! hul…

"NOOOOO!" shouted the monster suddenly. "hulCarly CAN FEEL PRESENCE AND INFLUENCE OF PUNY COSGROVE INSIDE! hulCarly WILL NOT ALLOW PUNY COSGROVE TO TAKE OVER! PUNY COSGROVE IS CUTE AND SASSY, BUT hulCarly SASSIEST ONE THERE IS! AAARRRAAARRRGGGHHH!!

"GREEN ASTRONAUT BEEKEEPER, HELP hulCarly!" yelled the creature to Spartan-458, who was hiding behind another rock. "GREEN ASTRONAUT BEEKEEPER MUST HELP hulCarly, OR hulCarly WILL SMASH!!

"AAAAAARRRRRAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH…"

And then, the most incredible thing happened.

In a flash, a clap, and a seeming cosmic burp, the hulCarly convulsed…once…twice…thrice.

And then pitched forward, spitting the frail figure of Miranda Cosgrove out of its giant gullet.

Leaving the imposing, impossible creature a mindless shell…still out for glory and consumed with an insatiable egomania.

"AAAAARGH…MONEY! AAAAARGH…POWER! AAAAARGH…FAME! AAAAARGH…COSGROVELODEON! AAAAARGH…"

This left just everyone else, including Connie, Dakota, Spartan-458, a bevomited Miranda Cosgrove, three unconscious survivors…and one irate conscious survivor, who was bent on taking out…

…the rampaging hulCarly.

For some reason, the greatest prize to which a soldier could lay claim was a hulking gray/green behemoth. It worked for General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross in the Marvelverse…and so too did it do it for Brock Mason.

"I'll bring you down!" he shouted from his tank, as he gave chase out of the sandy arena. "You won't get away, hulCarly…you…you hulCarly!"

And, as Brock rolled out of the area, effectively disqualifying himself and giving Spartan-458 the decisive win, the armored woman approached the barfed-out Miranda to comfort her.

"It's alright," started Nicole, "you're okay now."

Miranda shuddered as she sobbed profusely. "No, it's not alright…is it?"

The mothering Mjolnir paused. "No. It isn't. I won't lie to you. You're finished."

It was true. Her stardom having left her, Miranda was now just an ordinary girl. Fortunately for her.

"But…what'll I do now?"

"I suppose, Miranda…you'll just have to…get a real job, like everyone else."

Miranda winced as Nicole continued, consoling her with words and a rub on the shoulder. "A teacher, or an accountant, or a…lawyer, or…"

It was interesting, too; Nicole-458 could feel her future home reality shifting, many threads of fate regarding the Covenant, the Flood, and all that other mumbo jumbo…just because Miranda Cosgrove now would not become famous.

Perhaps the evil would be cleansed and the United Nations Space Command would prevail at last. Spartan-458 had accomplished something after all.

"NOOOOO!" cried Miranda, as she broke from the futuristic soldier. "No way I'm becoming a lawyer! Gimme the shotgun that hick dropped!"

MALLGOERS: 10

EVILDOAERS: 10

ENCOUNTER TWENTY-ONE: FRANK WEST (AS LE FRANK), OTIS WASHINGTON, AND RUSSELL BARNABY VERSUS LEI FANG (AS LA COLMILLA)

(AS WELL AS OTHER SURPRISE APPEARANCES)

WILLAMETTE PARK VIEW MALL, HELIPORT ACCESS,

SEPTEMBER 22ND, 11:40AM

At the center of the zombified zone that was now Willamette, on the most altitudinous of roofs at the Park View Mall, tens of straggling survivors, and ones of ludicrously beautiful brawlers, congregated to bear witness to the combat event that would determine all of their futures in the multiverse.

The outcome of this last battle would set the course for things to come, not only in the Capcomverse, but also in the Tecmoverse, as well as our own real world as well.

Well, maybe at least two out of those three.

"Frank? Frank?!" yelled Otis, polishing his transceiver for the pending pounding he was hoping to give and not receive. "Russell, where did that crooked-nosed tramp get off to?"

"…Search me," replied the other old man curtly, as he cleaned his cane in anticipation for the fight as well. "…I didn't ask for any of this! I wish the government just…did its job and…got us out of here, damn it!"

"I hear ya, I know," said Otis wistfully, looking over the unconscious form of Tina Armstrong. La Colmilla tried to throw her weight around for the umpteenth time by having her enforcer rough up the old farts a bit before the scheduled match…but Otis and Russell would have none of it. So the overly fit, buxom blonde was now heaving in a heap at the geriatrics' feet.

Across the windy way that was the Park View Heliport, a crowd of locals and interdimensionals alike began to circle around the official arena: the very yellow Circle H that was the helicopter landing pad itself. It was so dramatic of a locale, so capital…

…And yet so cliché, basically ripping off the second lair from the first Virtual Fighter.

But anyway, the air was yet saturated with tension and anxiety as all occupants of this vista view waited for, waited on one of two redoubtable, disparate saviors.

The one, the tai chi contessa, the mistressmind of the entire tournament: the invading vixen known to all for long as La Colmilla. Better known to those throughout several universes as the lissome, lithe Lei Fang.

The other…

SPA-BANNNG

"Damn it, you bumbling fool!" crowed Dr. Barnaby as the fubar-faced Frank West spilled through the roof access door at the last possible moment, "you almost got us disqualified!"

"Hhh, hhh, I know, I know," gasped the flustered photojournalist as he staggered past, chugging a coffee creamer in an attempt to heal a spinal cord severed by a crush of creatures on the way over. "Ju…just give me a second."

"We shall not grant you more than that second, Frank West," declared his opponent, from the helipad. "You knew that this match was to occur within minutes of noontide today. It was your obligation to produce your own vagabond body at this location, at this hour. Do not presume to seek my indulgences now."

"I wasn't presuming to seek anything," spat Frank as his spine began to set properly, thank goodness.

"You shall address me as 'Lady La Colmilla' when speaking to me!!" shouted the far-gone femme, just as she finished a _tai chi chuan_ form.

"I'll call you what I will, Fangface," Frank shot back, flexing and stretching to get ready. "And you, Lei Fang, will call me by _my_ new name…

_"LE FRANK."_

"I will call you _deceased_ in a second!" yelled Lei Fang, as Frank, Otis, and Russell jumped onto the helipad. Fighter and survivor alike mobbed the metal fringes of the makeshift match ground, screaming and writhing like a swarm of starved, bloodthirsty…well, you know.

"You know the consequences of this battle," Lei Fang began. "_When_ I win…"

"_If,_" Otis cut her off abruptly.

The warrior woman cleared her throat impatiently, then continued: "_If_ I win, I will lay claim to this entire town, and thenceforth commence my plans of Capcomverse conquest from this point on."

"And if _we_ win, you whippersnapping spitfire?!" barked Dr. Barnaby.

"In the unlikely event of that occurrence, my entourage and I shall take leave of your useless universe and return to our own." La Colmilla's fingers did not cross upon this statement, but in her mind she harbored no intention of leaving this world, this Capcomverse…

…this…arguable area of her origin.

"Well, let's just get on with it!" hollered Russell as he clambered over to where the lady stood, ready to administer the same caning he just handed down to her blossomed-bosomed bodyguard.

"Yah!" yelped Lei Fang in response, quickly dispatching the abusive elder by drawing him close with one hand, then thrusting deep into his midsection with the other.

All that emitted from Russell Barnaby at first was a sad "Uhh!" as he abruptly plopped to the concrete.

A rush of roars from the fighters overpopulating the area ensued when he hit.

Then, after the woman who whacked him had punted him from the arena with a steel-toed pump, he looked to the downed Tina and promptly disavowed responsibility for his role in her defeat, as well as his own: "That thrashing…was absolutely necessary! I haven't done…anything…wrong…"

"Existing was what you did wrong, you dirty more-than-twentysomething," muttered Lei Fang over her shoulder. Indeed, as she firmly believed, all men over the age of two decades were lewd, lascivious louts who deserved the beatings she bestowed unto them. Just ask the poor fellow who rode the train with her in her ending from her last tournament.

RRRRRING-RRRING

"Damn it," Lei Fang cursed, grabbing the transceiver from inside her comely peaches-and-cream cheongsam costume. "What is it?!"

"It's me, Otis, the janitor," said the voice on the other end of the line, as its owner approached from the other end of the helipad. "That sexy dress you're wearin' is hidin' nothin.'"

He ran towards Lei Fang, still speaking into the yellow communicator out of force of habit. "Call it an old fart's intuition, I can just tell…"

"Yee-ah!"

Before the masterful maintenance man could click his device off and strike with it, his target lashed out by grabbing him near the shoulders, then taking one arm and shoving it against his throat, throwing him backward. Otis tumbled end over end off of the pad without much bother or ceremony, again to the delight of the many battered fighters of Tecmoland.

"You better save our asses again, Fr…" was all the old man could say as his own transceiver struck him in the ear, ironically knocking him out.

"It is now down to you and me, Frank West," said La Colmilla, as she drew herself together with an intimidating tai chi stance. Meters away, the intrepid yet impoverished hero steeled himself and stood his ground.

The woman set her face with the angriest (yet still cutest little) look. "Before we continue, I wish to _reveal_ to you…"

_Ooh…this sounds fun,_ Frank thought for a second.

"…the reason as to why I decided to come to the Capcomverse…"

Damn it, inwardly cried the blue-balled photoprotagonist.

"…the reason, should I say, I decided to come back to the Capcomverse…

"…the reason I decided to come…home."

"What are you talking about?!" Frank piped incredulously. A collective shudder and gasp sounded across the crowd.

Lei Fang sighed slowly and softly before she spoke. "I shall explain.

"Back in the mid-to-late 1990s, as you already well know, the Dead or Alive tournaments commenced, exciting and arousing countless individuals across several universes. I was one of the first female fighters to be featured in what would become, arguably, the flagship franchise of the gaming enterprise.

"However, not only was I _one_ of the original ladies of the tournaments…I was _the definitive_ original woman to represent the savagery and sexuality of Dead or Alive."

Frank's brow crinkled as he checked his watch, hoping this would not take the remaining real-time hour that was his day.

"Here, Frank…look at this."

His eyes then shot upward, hoping for the exposition from Lei Fang that he was eagerly anticipating…

…but then he groaned upon seeing just a small computer rendering being thrown to his feet by La Colmilla.

Darn.

"See the cover of the presentation that was Dead or Alive 1! Discover that it was _I_ who was the one, front and center, looking infinitely lovelier and more lustful than the other two flanking me on either side!!"

Indeed, as Frank could notice from the design, Lei Fang was in the middle, wearing a snazzy black getup with her hair tufted up and pretty, while a brunette and slightly heavier Tina was to her right, and a plainer, white-haired Kasumi was to her left.

"I was the fairest fighter! Not…chunky-ass Tina, or the inexplicably ivory-maned Kasumi! At least on that front cover!"

"Yeah, so…what happened?" Frank asked.

"Huh, well. As if I myself even fully know the whole story. It is part of the reason why I am returning to the place of my…origin. I shall continue.

"Let me take you back even further, before that savagery and sexuality that was DOA…back to a milestone that occurred, in your very own universe…and…mine, ultimately. A little happening called _Super Street Fighter II._

"With the emergence of that project came four new fighters—only one of which, of course, had any staying power. Yea, although there were four to begin with, three were disregarded as minor leaguers, and basically not appealing enough as the pigtailed pugilist Cammy White…and those three were basically ousted from the Capcom radar screen.

"One of the three, you may know, possessed a name similar to my own."

Frank thought for a second, then shucked his mouth open in shock as a realization dawned on him. "You can't mean you're…actually…"

"Fei Long?" said Lei Fang quickly. "The answer to that would be…yes and no.

"After Fei Long fell out of sight back in the mid-nineties, he stealthily snuck into Capcom's headquarters and took advantage technology to be used for crossovers such as _Marvel v. Capcom_, or _Capcom v. SNK_…to reach any other world out there, any world that would take him. He ended up landing in the Tecmoverse—a world where its creators were desperate to find a new, most likely lewd angle to stay afloat in their competitive gaming galaxy.

"Fei Long approached one of Tecmo's gods…the so-called gentleman known to most simply as Itagaki. He begged Itagaki to involve him in an upcoming Tecmo project that would possibly bring him the Bruce-Lee-impersonative glory he had sought after for so many years."

Frank's foot tapped with intense irritation—as did that of fifty-plus other survivors—as this went on and on. The man didn't endure terrorism, cultism, and an asylum load of psychosis for three days just to listen to this lady blather away. "Alright, alright, so you're, like, Fei Long with a sex change or something, right? Let's just…come on and get this overwith."

"NO!" shouted Lei Fang, "I refuse to continue until you listen to the conclusion to my tale! I am almost there, so just…quiet your face.

"Itagaki laughed heartily at the request of a mighty, yet somewhat lowly, Capcommer to join his cause. So the god did what he felt was just.

"Imprisoning the uninspired warrior, Itagaki drew cell samples from Fei Long, and generated his first clones from them. Yes, before there was Kasumi and her own ho iteration, known as Alpha-152…there was Fei Long…and _two_ carbon copies, of a sort. One was a male: the unfortunately injured Jann-Lee, as you can see here." She waved her arm over to where her mortal enemy Jann-Lee lay in abject agony, rubbing some sort of familiar substance on his betrumpeted behind.

_That's…that's the Zombie Ben-Gay that Is…Isabela created!_ Frank's mind raced. _Could it mean…that she's…_

"The other…clone," choked La Colmilla as she spoke, "was the one you see in front of you.

"At any rate, I was trained intensely by Itagaki and rose through the nine-or-tenfold original DOA ranks to become the reigning queen of the title. It was _my_ face, and mine alone, that sold millions of copies across the multiverse. Things progressed along rather optimally for a while, as I remained at least one of the main selling aspects of the fledgling franchise—if not _the_ main aspect.

"But then…our god Itagaki began to experience a bit of…jailer's remorse.

"At least in part because the so-called 'man' or possibly 'god' didn't like the fact that his main asset—me—had been spawned from an individual of the Capcomverse, he began edging me…phasing me out of the title's limelight. In addition, he didn't like the fact that I, again an indirect by-product of Capcom, was beginning to approach him with ideas that could increase our already irresistible appeal. The name change I advised from _Dead or Alive_, which really makes no sense when it comes down to it, to _Dead or Bust_, to still makes no sense but at least it's more suggestive, was summarily shot down. Also aborted was my brainchild of _DOA Titillating Tiddlywinks_…which was eventually twisted by the Tecmo elders into _DOA Xtreme Beach Volleyball_. All the while, while I presented my ideas to the fore, Itagaki was never listening…always propositioning.

"Infuriated, I shrugged him off and let him do what he would with my character and my life. I watched as _Dead or Alive 2_ came along with the resurgence of the annoyance that was Ayane, as well as the appearance of hoity-toity Helena. Then _Dead or Alive 3_ with the grating Hitomi and the galling Christie…whom I'll come back to in a second. And lastly, of course, _Dead or Alive 4_, with Lisa, or La Mariposa, as I'll admit I sort of got the inspiration for my own name from…and that bobobo known as Kokoro.

Lei Fang threw out more cover designs to Frank. Among them were DOA3, DOA4, DOAX1, and DOAX2. "Notice also that my countenance does not grace that cover of any of these! Again, at least not the American versions. I'm not even in the family-portraitesque fourth tournament cover, which features, goddamn, Bass and Eliot for Christ's sake.

"And lastly, the _DOA: Dead or Alive_ movie. Again, as in the DOA1 game cover, it is Kasumi on one side and Tina on the other…but who is in the center? Not me! Not me, but…Christie, the ungrateful, undeserving spit-haired sthead!

"And who was the only girl to be a minor character in the film, and not a sexy lead…who was the only woman who wasn't played by a recognizable, worldwide household name…who was the only lady who _lost_ in the first round of that tournament…!"

"Lei Fang…" interrupted Frank, "like, other girls, like Hitomi, Lisa, and Kokoro were barely in the film also, or not at all…"

"SILENCE!" boomed La Colmilla. "Do NOT mention the name of that generic geisha…EVER AGAIN! Some dare to claim that Kokoro is an…upgrade of my own person, even though she is Japanese and I am Chinese. WELL, KOKO, BEWARE!!

"I am here now to lay claim to that which is rightfully mine, and mine alone. I…now no longer Lei Fang, but, 'The Fang' or 'La Colmilla'…yes, just like Rocky Maivia's metamorphosis into 'The Rock'…shall rule both the Tecmoverse which disgraced me, as well as the Capcomverse from which I technically originated!

"I will commence with your defeat in a few more moments, photojournalist: let me state my terms more explicitly. You know what happens if, or when, I will win. Should you somehow manage to prevail…I may be gracious enough to return Fei Long to your homeland. Let that much be clear."

Frank looked to the surrounding survivors, and shared their aggregate shrug. "Ah, he's not really worth much to us. I'll tell ya what would really be nice, though…"

Lei Fang's eyebrow arched at this.

"If you gave us the rights to Even Newer Zack Island upon our victory…with all the chicks in tow…"

"Out of the question!" barked the tourney leader. "You cannot have access to our greatest asset…besides me, of course…under any circumstances."

"Well, then, at least give us the pole!" shouted a voice from the crowd. Predictably, it was that of Nathan Crabbe's…the salacious survivor who got off rather thoroughly to Cheryl's "request" of Frank the night before. The others in the rabble sputtered amongst themselves uneasily for a moment, at the prospect of receiving the basest component of the entire Xtreme experience: the pole dancing pole, grosser to any decent person than any gravure…but then, after many moments, male and female Willamettan alike started to roil, then roar aloud in unison with the request. From Rich to Ray, Mindy to Michelle, the survivors shouted:

"GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE!"

Lei Fang's face scrunched in disgust at this. "You people want a _pole_ in place of your beloved Fei Long?!"

"GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE! GIVE US THE POLE!"

The woman warlord shook her head, gravely disappointed that her genetic heritage was held in such low esteem. She then sighed again. "Very well, then. The pole shall be yours…but then, it shall not be…as I shall most assuredly win this battle, and the tournament." She turned to her main enemy, settling into another fighting stance. "You now know my origin, as well as my motives for initiating this entire event, Frank West. I now ask you firmly: Are. You. Ready. To. …Lose."

"I don't think so," said the hero, stepping toward the edge of the arena. He then asked his foe something similar to that which he would ask Isabela, in another reality, before leaving the mall through the partially destroyed clock tower: "Are you ready to…get the hell outta here?"

Lei Fang bit down on contempt and loathing as she watched her opponent reach over the edge of the helipad to retrieve a weapon from one of the survivors. "Going with your usual mini chainsaws, coward?" she asked. "Or how about your cheap Real Mega Buster?"

"Nah," replied the jaunty journalist. "I'm gonna try something I've never used much of…though the cover of _my_ game suggests that I would." He threw a copy of the cover design for the American version of _Dead Rising_ over his shoulder. La Colmilla looked down and saw that, there, Frank was wielding a television set against the undead hordes.

She then looked up a second before an actual television set hit her full in the face.

"Uggh!" she cried, falling down sharply. Over her stood Frank—now Le Frank, in full force—with TV in hand, aiming to dish out more destruction. Roughly he brought the set over his head…yes, just like on his cover…and prepared to crush the Chinese mistress with it.

"NO!"

At the last second, Lei Fang rolled out of the way as Le Frank brought down the device, missing her by just inches. She struck out at him with fists and feet, but he managed to jump out of the way to safety like only a maxed-out Level 50 civilian could.

"," he said, inaudibly from feet away as he continued to hold the television set.

"What?" yelled Lei Fang, gathering herself to attack again.

"."

"I can't…I can't hear you, Le Frank West."

Suddenly a High Definition Television, from either Entrance or Wonderland or someplace, was thrown into the arena. Le Frank put down his Standard TV and hefted the HD one.

"Sorry," said the man, "my words are better understood with a high-def usually. I said I'm gonna come over and kick your cheongsamed cheeks back to China…in whatever universe!!"

"You come on and just _try,_ imbecile."

And try Le Frank did as he leapt across the screen…er, helipad…and swung out at Lei Fang again. Despite all of her training, the martial arts maiden was not prepared for the brunt of the brute strength of the formidable (Le) Frank West. Again she went down, at the pressure of the HDTV against her beautiful face.

However, again she evaded complete defeat by diving away just as Le Frank attempted to trounce her with the large screen. And this time, he did not successfully vault away as Lei Fang lashed out with a leg, a simple low kick that knocked the man over and the television out of his hands.

She then rushed in an effort to dominate him quickly and finally…but met with the business end of his camera.

"I'll use…whatever…I…can to…do you proud!" the man yelped in between thrusts of his favorite tool.

As Le Frank continued to pry into Lei Fang with his camera, he noticed that she was wearing some sort of protection underneath her creamy cheongsam.

"What's this?" he asked, unable to believe what he saw as his adversary shook him off. He put his camera down at the moment, as god forbid he should have that be broken. "You can't do that! Wearing extra padding under your clothing!"

"Don't all the DOA girls do that?!" asked Burt sarcastically from afar.

"He isn't referring to that, you dunderheaded oaf," said La Colmilla as she ripped off the rest of her tattered dress, revealing one of the costumes she used to wear in the first tournament: that very same snazzy, cute black getup from the front cover of DOA1.

She even did her hair up into the charming little tuft as she spoke: "I understand that I haughtily set the rules in this tournament so that no individual from my side could use weapons or enhancements of any kind. I consider this extra costume not additional armor…but rather, a throwback backup, so to speak, a concession to which I am entitled for devising this whole event. Besides, it has made no difference: the cheongsam is off, so we are now equal. And you've been hitting me in the face the whole time anyway."

Le Frank nodded sheepishly; it was true.

"And now we are truly equal, as you have been bereaved of all of your weaponry…and we can now face one another in real, mano-a-femano hand to hand combat. Come now." Lei Fang laughed a second, then reclined into the open, arms-slowly-splaying combat stance that she used in every tournament to date. "Give me some excitement, OK?"

"I'll 'excite' you, kid…" said Frank, "but not as my latest incarnation. No, I will change, as you have…and now be known as _TEH FRANK!!_"

He divested himself of his homeless clothes, leaving only his blue undershorts which showed when captured by Special Forces. He then charged at her.

At the end of his run, he attempted a fast jump kick, which she rapidly dodged. She then moved in an executed a nasty triple-jump-kick of her own that knocked Le Frank to the concrete quickly. Lei Fang then attempted to follow up with a rising, full-thighed high kick (God, but Lei Fang has the best legs in DOA…at least _that_ can't be disputed)…but this was avoided by Teh Frank's flying dodge, which saved yet disoriented him for a second. He started to move in towards her, then rattled off a few karate chops…but his lack of real martial arts training made him easy prey for the lusty Lei Fang, who blocked all of them, then engaged the man in a debilitating shoulder tackle of sorts. Teh Frank popped out of this somehow, then started moving backward as his enemy pulled off a high kick, then a midlevel spin kick, both of which missed him by inches.

"Come on," he taunted from that far away as he continued to avoid more moves by his opponent, "Don't be a lousy Lei! Be a good Lei!"

"AAARRRRAAAAGH!" yelled the girl goddess as she herself charged in to strike…only to meet Teh Frank's feet as he laid into her face yet again with a somersault kick. She then approached, hit The Frank upside the head with a rising thrusting chop, then a pair of medium level double hand thrusts that nearly knocked him for a loop.

Arrogantly Lei Fang walked up to her adversary, innocently locked her hands behind her back, and spoke again. "Did you enjoy that full course of techniques?" she asked.

Teh Frank said nothing, but only grabbed the woman's ankles, shunting her to the ground. He then spun and spun, executing a giant swing that landed Lei Fang on the opposite end of the helipad. He then rushed her again, and before she could react, pulled off a face crusher that made her meditative experiences on the concrete that much more complete. When she arose yet again, he tried a disembowel maneuver…

…but she caught his hands, drew him in, then away again with a kick then an elbow to the midsection.

As Teh Frank did all he could to recover his breath and his wits, Lei Fang did likewise, then rose up once more. She struck a martial arts pose for the googolplexeth time. "Everything in the world exists within the tai chi, Teh Frank West," she declared. "And the tai chi exists most purely within me. This is _my_ world, Teh Frank West. You've only been living and breathing in it because I have allowed it to be so. And now…I shall disallow it!!"

With that, Lei Fang pumped with pumps blazing towards Teh Frank with every intention of destroying him totally…

…only to meet with a lariat that numbered higher than any score that any game reviewer ever automatically gave a game with "Mario," "Metroid," "Zelda," "Final Fantasy," "Grand Theft Auto," or " of War" in the title. (And probably without even reviewing it, either.)

Lei Fang fell to the ground once more, on the verge of defeat, the sound of her collapse drowned out by one huge thing…

…the deafening drone of the approach of that which Frank/Le Frank/Teh Frank had anticipated for seventy-two hours.

"ED!!" he cried, as he watched the "junker" helicopter come closer (and with no stowaway zombies in tow, mind you…this isn't _that_ ending). Hopefully he could get the survivors out before the Tecmo freaks could do them any more damage.

As Frank and Lei Fang watched, however, Ed DeLuca did not lower his chopper close to the helipad…

…but rather, as a chickenhearted pilot had done in the original undead nightmare in the Capcomverse, and as Frank himself did by accident just before coming to the Park View Mall…

…Ed chucked out a small object onto the concrete, between the combatants.

As with the chickenheart, Ed cried, "Use it to destroy the monster!"

But as with Frank's own experience, what fell from the volant vehicle was not a rocket launcher, or any weapon at all really…

…it was the mysterious, small silver case.

"I went out of my way to find that thing after you dropped it, Fred!" yelled the pilot. "After I saw what was in there, I figured, it was worth the risk!"

Not even bothering to correct Ed as to his name—yet again—Frank just thumbs-upped him in gratitude and starting booking for the case.

"Wha…What's in there, Teh Frank West?!" protested Lei Fang as she watched the man run to it. "You…you cannot utilize outside assistance for purposes of this tournament...!"

"This tournament's over, babe," Frank said as he grabbed the case, making sure it was set facing his enemy and most of the fighters before he opened it.

"No…NO! It cannot be this!" Lei Fang cried as she saw what was within.

"Oh yes it can, you yammering, yipping yahoo! It's the…"

"Oh my God oh my God!" exclaimed Kelly Carpenter from aside the arena as she saw the thing inside the case. "That Barney's whippin' out that spiffy thing I used to see when playing _Vulgus_ back in the day! It was like the mass flange! Get me a chonger…"

Indeed, the one object that was inside the silver case was worth an infinity of such eighties accolades, as it was the greatest source of Capcom's strength, and a weakness to those of all other universes…

…it was ability unbridled…

…it was…

…the Yashichi.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!" cried Lei Fang in horror at the sight of the multi-bladed disc, which began to spin slow to very fast upon the case's opening. "AAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!"

And, as the sacred item commenced to turn and turn, it started doing something else, a word that usually does not appear in the same sentence as "Yashichi."

It started to suck.

It sucked and sucked, sucking towards it all of the characters who did not belong into the Capcomverse to begin with. Ryu Hayabusa, Bass Armstrong, Hitomi, and Leon all took an initial leave as they were inextricably drawn into the almighty symbol, vanishing without a trace. No survivor was affected at all as, seconds later, Eliot (with a huge bandage around his head…from that pesky missile), Gen-Fu, Kokoro, Zack, Niki, and Hayate followed.

"AAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!"

Lei Fang herself was drawn to it…

But then used the last of her tai chi talents to flip up and over the case, hanging onto the edges of its wide-opened lid by both hands, her legs dangling helplessly as she floated horizontally. With all of her depleting might, she resisted being absorbed into the Yashichi…

…but unfortunately, not even her original snazzy black costume could withstand such resistance.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRIP

And with that, the Capcomverse and the remaining members of the Tecmoverse alike witnessed the birth of…

…Zero Swimsuit Lei Fang.

Yes, like its inspiration, "Zero Suit Samus," this involved a familiar heroine wearing less than fans were accustomed to seeing.

But this made the DOAX "Venus" outfit look like Mjolnir Mark VIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII armor, in terms of what was there and what wasn't. The latter of which was, basically, everything.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAGH TEHHHHHHHHH FRANNNNNNNKKKKK WESSSSSSSSSTTTTTT…" bellowed Zero Swimsuit Lei Fang in agony as she continued to hang from the case.

chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff.

"OHHHHH…MY BROTHER…JANN-LEE…HELP ME! HELLLLLLLP MEEEEEEE!" cried the _former_ tournament mistress, noticing the Bruce Lee knockoff as she clung for dear life and no clothes.

But Jann-Lee wasn't approaching the case for her sake, as he continued along with the bell of his trumpet still showing out his rear end, puffing out a flat C note with each step.

chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff. chuff.

And he certainly wasn't losing his shirt, or more than that, as the case was with Lei Fang, as his horn-ed ass limped up and painfully dove through the Yashichi.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Then came Brad Wong. And then Lisa—or sorry, "La Mariposa." Then Tina, being hefted by the new couple that was Christie and Bayman. They shared more than a moment treating each other's mortal wounds, and managed to get back on the road to recovery. One day a British/Russian fighter, borne by both, would grace _Dead or Alive 63466576736576437647._

Then Ayane vaulted into the case, no longer with her macho man arm but rather with both original limbs intact…it was amazing what a "snack" bag of chips lying around in Entrance Plaza could do for an amputee.

Then Spartan-458 overed and outted through the symbol.

Then…

_"My love for you…is deeper than sea…let's cherish our lives…eternally…"_

Frank looked down at the next Tecmoer going towards the Yashichi portal. One of the most attractive yet sirenic sights he had ever seen was at his feet: a fully mermaidified Kasumi, sliding past him on the concrete and looking up with pleading eyes. For a second, her irresistible singing made him want to hold her back.

"Oh, give it up, Bazoomy!" shouted Janet Star from afar. "Just get in the case!"

"FRANK!"

The photojournalist then looked up at the sound of his lover's voice. There, looking a bit worse for wear but still alive, thank the gods, was Isabela, yelling for him.

He then looked down at Kasumi again. God, it was so hard…

"FRANNNNNNK?!" cried Isabela again.

"Oh…alright," he decided, placing his foot over the schmaltzy mermaid's features in preparation for an old-fashioned, OG Playstation 1 Resident Evil 1 zombie facestomp.

_"Sharing the joy…laugh_SCRACK"

Frank shook his head and pushed the remains of Mermaid Kasumi into the case.

Then the last two besides Lei Fang, who were also yet more insanely idealized women, ran to the case…

…with each one's lover sprinting closely behind.

"Helena, love, don't do this to us! Please!" squeaked Thomas as he rushed along.

"Alpha, I won't allow this!" screamed Steven alongside him. "NOT ON MY WAAAAAATCH!"

And then, to everyone's amazement, not only did Helena and Alpha-152 go through the Yashichi…

…but so did Thomas and Steven.

What no one knew was that the symbol, which functioned merely as a "power-up" for Capcomites, and as an interdimensional portal for all others, served as the latter for these two survivors because of their…intimate relations with the Tecmo women…which made them that much less of Capcom men.

At last, this left only Lei Fang, still hanging onto the edge of the case.

"Looks as if you need some help there, 'La Colmilla,'" Frank said, pun intended, as he kneed her down, executing a knee drop that drove first her head, then the rest of her, into the case.

And with that, Frank closed the special container and hefted it under his arm.

"Well, it looks like that's that," he said, as Isabela rushed up to hug and make out with him.

"You're my hero…and hero to all of us, Frank West," Isabela said as she embraced him tightly.

"It was nothing," he said in reply. "I've covered whores before, you know."

RRRRRING RRRRRING

Frank looked to the place where he thought Otis lay…and found the area empty. Apparently he, and all the other survivors, were already downstairs celebrating. He walked over to a place where he could hear as Ed DeLuca finally lowered his helicopter onto the helipad.

"Yep," he said into his transceiver.

"Frank, we've got another situation down here," said the irrepressible Otis on the other end.

"What is it this time?!"

"It's…it's not what you think. There's a…pole that materialized in the middle of the security area…and a lot of the survivors are fighting over it! Most of all…Jessie and Cheryl are tangled up around the thing…"

"I'm on my way," Frank said abruptly as he jogged to the opened door, the existence of Isabela Keyes momentarily lapsing from his mind.

MALLGOERS: 11

EVILDOAERS: 10

EPILOGUE

"WHADDAYA MEAN SHE'S NOT HEEEEEEEEERE?!" shrieked a soaking wet Steven Chapman, looking all around his new, overly idyllic surroundings for his lost love.

"I mean she's not here, okay?" said Niki, Zack's girlfriend and co-operator of Even Newer Zack Island, in response. Somehow the trip back to Tecmoland cured her of the ailment that ensavaged her before. "She's like made of water. She wouldn't be on this tiny bit of land, surrounded by ocean."

Looking more forlorn than ever, Steven whimpered into the gorgeous sunrising horizon. "Oh…Alpha-152…"

He then turned back to Niki. "Are you sure SHE'S NOT HERE?!"

The silver-haired hostess covered her hand over her face, then shrugged in frustration. She then looked over her shoulder…and knew what to do.

"There!" she said, pointing to a bathing suit floating in a pool nearby. "There she is. Go get her, champ."

"Ohhh….THANK YOU! THANK YOU AND HAVE A NICE DAAAAAAAY!" roared the shopkeeper as he bolted for the pool, then belly flopped in. He didn't even register the pain of the flop as he reached for what he thought was his beloved Kasumi clone.

Niki snickered a second, then turned her head as she noticed Christie coming, with a towel wrapped around her. "Anyone around here seen my iolite thong? I must have left it somewhere after skinny-dipping, but I can't remember."

Niki restrained her amusement a moment as she pointed towards the same pool he indicated a second ago.

A few minutes later, the hostess looked up from her busy schedule of marine race and butt-battle events to frown at Thomas Hall, who was trying to get in yet again.

"Look, Thomas, I told you enough times already: This island is off-limits to folks like you!"

"But…but I've at least got the eyes for it!" the young man protested, batting the freakish pair of peepers he received from relations with Helena.

"Yeah, and you'll need a lot more than that to get in here. Now off with you!"

"Aww, but come on…Helena's in there waiting for me…"

"She's back with Weatherby. Now move!"

Dejected, Thomas sighed and started back towards the shore of the island, wondering what the heck to do now. Not in terms of getting back home, so much…as what to do about his insatiable desires.

WHOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHH

"AAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH—OOOOOOOFFFFFFF!"

Then Zero Swimsuit Lei Fang came toppling in from the Capcomverse, directly above him, and resolved the matter.


End file.
